


Colony One

by jendavis



Series: A Fight Called You [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Carl is a Little Shit, Cut off from Earth, Daryl Dixon Needs a Hug, Double Agents, Families of Choice, Hurt Daryl Dixon, Hurt Jesus (Walking Dead), Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jesus needs a hug, Let's Go Steal a Ship, Long, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Pre-Slash, Rated For Violence, Sasha Being Sasha, Science Fiction, Slow Build, Space Colony, Space Opera, Strangers to Allies to Friends to Lovers, This is all prologue but it had to be done, This is the Strangers to Allies Part, Unevenly Distributed Apocalypse, Warning: Negan, pre-pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 94,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9978938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: Colony One was Earth's crowning achievement, a testament to international cooperation, and humanity's hunger for exploration.  Fifty years later, Earth is at war.  The colony is breaking down into factions- most notably between the Administrative elite, the Techniki laborers, and a police force falling under the control of a madman.If there is to be any hope for a resistance, any hope at all for survival, alliances must be made.Paul Rovia is simply trying to keep everything from falling apart.Daryl Dixon is just trying to make it through the goddamned day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this is going to be long. Like, ~~50,000 65,000~~ 70,000-words-to-get-them-talking-to-each-other long, and they're not married by the end of it (please don't hit me). I'm setting this up as part one three part series- so consider yourself warned. :)
> 
> Also, this is partially inspired by "A Song Called Youth," by John Shirley, which is an excellent trilogy that I heartily recommend (though you don't need to read it to follow what's going on here, it's just a seriously fantastic series of books). 
> 
> (Also, I'm spell checking as best I can, but if you notice something weird, feel free to drop a comment on the chapter and I'll go in to find and fix it.)

_Monday, 04/14/2194, 05:14_

Daryl blinks awake to the same thin greasy colony light he'd fallen asleep to, and realizes two things. The first is that his jaw hurts. The second, and probably not unrelated, is that he'd had that dream again: 

_The windstorm. Merle, outside, comms going to static as his body crashes against the airlock, catching himself on one of the support struts on the other side of the membrane, just inches out of reach. Static on the line and the crew shouting, trying to winch him back in. Static under Daryl's nails as he tries fruitlessly to claw through the electrocharged membrane to reach him, and the almost-there feeling of molecules reasserting their order around his fingertips, pushing back against the intrusion and sealing him out._

_Looking up from his futile attempts to find Merle's eyes, frozen wide and angry and landing on him only by chance. It looks like he's screaming._

_Daryl hadn't heard- can't hear- a thing._

_The silence is infectious and it spreads out to the rest of him. He can't move, can't breathe, and the thick membrane's built to withstand forces greater than him anyway. All he can do is flinch his eyes away to watch the tail end of Merle's severed secondary cable whip through the billowing dust. It's changing direction, billowing on the air like a snake about to strike, and suddenly, it's flailing away again._

_Another wave of wind-blown debris hits the airlock frame, shaking Merle loose, sending him careening off into nowhere at all._

\-- 

That's ain't how it had gone down, though. 

Daryl hadn't seen it happen, hadn't been there. Hadn't even heard about it until half an hour later, when he'd climbed up from the crawlspace above the secondary reclamation tank to find Rick waiting for him with a flashlight, looking pensive and worried. He and Daryl hadn't been friends- they'd barely become anything approaching _friendly_ at that point- but he'd been there when the rest of Merle's crew had made it back inside, and he'd come to find him. 

"We could put a request in," he remembers Rick telling him, as they'd stood peering through the eight-inch thick membrane a few minutes later. "Start a pool, get the credits together for a recovery." If he'd said anything else in the previous five minutes, Daryl hadn't noticed. 

Merle'd been lying on the ground, twenty meters out past the membrane. His sealsuit designation had been just visible through the darkness and the layer of dust that had already settled in the aftermath of the windstorm, but the ram's head he'd painted on the back had still been visible, clear as day. 

His head had been- would probably always be, once the sand finishes its inexorable shift over him- facing the wrong direction. 

He remembers contemplating Rick's offer, weighing the cost of an extraction against power and food, the odd bottle of alcohol that made the off-shifts tolerable on the bad days. They'd make back about half of it in mulching credits once the body was processed, if the rates hadn't gotten any worse since the last time he'd checked, but the math had been beyond him, at that point. 

"Burial's more than most of us get," he'd decided, eventually, and Rick had left it at that. 

A few days later, he'd been on the roof of Alexandria, drinking his way through his 72 hour grievance leave and staring past the brown-gray commons to green swath of the 'culturalist fields. The colored lights on the strip had seemed brighter than usual in the weeklong pre-dawn light, enough that the bright white walls of the Admin enclave, all the way on the other end of the colony, had been glinted with spots of red and blue, green and purple. 

The enclave hadn't been something he'd normally glance twice at, but he'd been working on breaking the habit of staring the opposite direction. The first month he'd been up here, he'd barely been able to take his eyes off of the windswept wasteland, held at bay by only the self-healing membrane. By the end of his first year, he'd gone out on four work orders. Not enough to feel at ease out there- thinking like that was a sure way of getting killed- but enough to pretend at it whenever the subject came up. 

The soil inside Colony One was a hard-packed drab grayish brown, muted and plain compared to the landscape outside Out past the membrane, where the atmosphere was devoid of any moisture whatsoever, the rocks, sand and dust were streaked yellow and white, sometimes orange bleeding to red. Whenever the winds kicked up the dirt and sand, the whole planet looked alive; it was only when the air was still that it looked as dead as it well and truly was. No water, no trees. There'd been no signs of life at all on this rock, before the colonists had arrived. 

They'd been scattering signs of death ever since the First Families set up camp, though. Techniki bodies, mostly. Didn't happen all that often, but it happened more often to them than anyone else. Jobs go wrong, equipment breaks, accidents happen. The sand covers all of it eventually, Merle included.

Looking down along the length of the colony as he'd been doing, he'd seen Hershel's approach from the farms, but he hadn't really tracked it. Not until Hershel'd crawled up the ladder to join him on the roof. 

He'd mostly said the shit everyone else had been saying. _Sorry for your loss. Let me know if there's anything you need_. But then he'd started in on some shit about how maybe, in a billion years, Merle's last microbes might be the spark that made life possible on the outside. That someday, long after they were all gone, another form of life might come up out of him, start the whole cosmic ball rolling again. 

Daryl hadn't said anything in reply, which might've been the first real victory he'd had since leaving Earth, because by that point, _fuck off_ had been the only words he'd had left. 

\--- 

Daryl doesn't know if his dreams would be worse or better, had Merle died facing towards the colony instead of away. But it's been nearly a year- 365 days anyway, according to the calendars, which matter more and more on a planet where a solar cycle takes eight months- and Merle's body's nearly buried entirely now; when he'd caught sight of it yesterday, all he could see was a dark smudge that doesn't even resemble a horn, anymore, curling up on a rise that barely resembles a shoulder. Another two months or so, he figures, and it'll be gone entirely. 

The thing is, though, the light's always the same in the dream: exactly as it is right now. Permanent daylight, streaking dusty and muted through the membrane, but still bright enough to creep through the gaps in the filter screens he'd installed back before he'd gotten used to sleeping with the sun constantly overhead. 

He's been meaning to fix them for months now, but at this point, even the dreams he has about Earth, they're starting to get colored the same grey-brown. 

By the time he gets up, drinks some water, and throws his coveralls on, he will have forgotten about the shutters, forgotten mostly about the dream. He'll only half-remember it in a few hours, when there'll be a colony-wide notification for a memorial service for a Project Manager Daryl's never spoken to, but the thought won't solidify. 

Another moment after that, and it will leave him completely. 

\--- 

_Monday, 04/14/2194, 16:32_

Paul's probably the only one sitting here in the lobby not wishing that he was on the other side of the Chamber doors. But he keeps the smirk off his face; everyone else here, they're all Admin or AdSec; they all know their place, and they know his. There's no one among them that he can joke about it with. It wouldn't be politic, especially not if his suspicions are true. 

The Council's been shut in there for over an hour, and right now, he's fairly certain, they're making their selection to fill PM Davis' vacancy. 

Gregory had been anxious about it, so much so that he'd appeared completely confident, even friendly when they'd crossed paths in the hallway downstairs. He only ever does that when he's trying to bolster morale; otherwise, he's too much of a wretched bastard to bother making the effort. Whatever's going on, they sure as hell aren't worrying about the construction of the soundstage for the Half-Centennial, but he'd told Paul to stick around anyway. 

So he had. So he does. 

Thanks to the bright white walls of the enclave reflecting more light than the cloudy sky should be capable of producing, it's stuffy in here, enough that his shirt is sticking to his back and he can feel the damp ends of his hair prickling against the skin above his collar. A work request to adjust the climate will probably be showing up in the system within the hour, courtesy of Councilwoman Hodges, if not Gregory himself. 

Paul brings up the systems monitor on his tablet, tries to start thinking ahead of how they're going to find an extra three or four percent. Anything more than that, people will notice. 

But the vents are operating at 96 percent as it is- a leak in the HVAC, somewhere, or a fan blowing too fast over the fields- so redirecting any conditioned air's out of the question. He could override it, set the vents to push a little more conditioned air this way, but the 'culturalists from the Ag Department will be in first thing in the morning for a meeting about the sorghum yields. One or two of them will probably still have their atmo sniffers in their pockets, and it would raise questions the Council's not prepared to answer. 

There's not much more Paul can do about the current muggy situation in here besides patting his pockets in a futile search for a hair tie, though he does put in a work order to identify the source of the missing four percent. After that, he needs to power his tablet down to conserve the battery. The incessant drone of the comms channel, when he taps into it, doesn't do much to occupy him either; it's music, right now, the kind that he can't identify despite having heard it a thousand times. 

They're still about thirty minutes out from the shift change newsfeed updates, and it's official: the Council's running _late_ , now. A few of the others out here are getting twitchy, slowly losing hope of getting their pencilled-in five minute audiences. Spencer Monroe, third down the list of the colony's _Who's Who of Insufferable Bastards_ \- and the definite frontrunner for taking Davis' spot on the Council- is leaning against the polished bamboo window frame, huffing self-importantly whenever anyone so much as glances in his direction. The collar of his uniform is starting to curl under the humidity, despite his ongoing attempts to straighten it.

Behind Spencer, through the glass and out past the enclave and the commons, Paul can see the neon lights of the strip's restaurants and credit reclamation casinos blinking faintly to life under the omnipresent gray-brown haze. He thinks that maybe the sky's gone a shade darker than it had been this morning, but maybe he's just imagining it. It'll be another month or so before night really starts to fall. 

The SciMed team Alex is hosting is still grumbling about the colony's location again, as if unceasing wind storms closer to the equator are worth the risk of a three week solar cycle. But Alex is asking them questions as if it's a conversation he hasn't heard a million times. 

Maybe he hasn't. He hadn't been born here; he'd only come out from Earth seventeen months ago as part of a NATOPS initiative to move their best and brightest out of harm's way on Earth. He'd been awed by the unending days, when he'd arrived. By the time night had finally fallen two months later, he'd already been out of Paul's bed for three weeks, his thoughts on the matter unreachable without twisting their awkward friendship more than it could handle.

Maybe, he thinks, Alex is just humoring them because it's easier than the prospect of making small talk with him. The feeling, Paul decides, is mutual. 

Paul tries activating his tablet before remembering he'd shut it down, and contemplates, for the fifth or sixth time, giving up his place in line. While Gregory prefers face-to-face updates, Paul doesn't have anything that can't be transmitted through an email. He'll be sore about it, but there's never anything at all underneath his bluster. Paul will survive. And besides. The pho kitchen down on the strip is starting to run low on lemongrass and won't have it again for another few weeks at least. It might be worth an effort to beat the rush. 

Before he can actually get up to make his escape, though, the doors to the chamber slide open. As everyone starts clambering to their feet in hopes of being called in next, Gregory steps out with a look on his face that Paul hasn't seen before. It's not friendly, or boisterous, or snidely controlling. It's the face of a man who knows he's about to lose it. 

And Paul's not the only one to notice, either. Spencer is already pushing forward through the suddenly alert crowd, looking for all the world like he's preparing to jump into battle.

"Paul, you hold up." Gregory regards him blankly; through the door behind him, Deanna Monroe and Sook Lin have their heads tilted down as they talk. They're too quiet to hear, out here, but their postures are anxious. "Everyone else, I'm sorry, it'll have to wait until morning."

Spencer, unsurprisingly, bristles at the brush-off; the fact that Paul's been pulled aside isn't setting him at ease, either. "Governor Jefferson, What's going on?"

Gregory smiles reassuringly, but it's by design, the way the smile ticks up and his spine relaxes. He doesn't seem to notice that his audience isn't buying it. "Nothing that'll send us crashing into the sun before the weekend. Come back tomorrow, I'm sure it'll keep until then."

\--- 

Paul follows Gregory- _Governor Jefferson_ doesn't sound any better in his had than _Dad_ had, despite the few awkward months Mom had tried to make it a thing- back inside to the Council Chambers. They talk, he listens. 

The colony's not going careening into the sun by this weekend, as it turns out. 

They're looking at a slower, more complicated death. 

And Paul's being promoted.


	2. Chapter 2

_Tuesday, 04/15/2194, 09:18_

The United States' Second Civil War had never been formally declared, but that hadn't stopped anyone from fighting it, and the resulting tectonic fault-lines had dug into the international political landscape deeply and quickly. By the time NATO and the UN scrambled to rearrange themselves into NATOPS- the North Atlantic Treaty Organization and Protective Service- in 2189, everyone on Earth had been too busy fighting World War III to declare _that_ one, either. 

So maybe it's fitting that the Council's only looking to start handling this situation now. 

"The fact of the matter is this," says Sook Lin, the Research PM and one of the Council members that before today, he'd only known by sight. Despite the kind smile on her face, she has the look of being someone accustomed to going to the mat against people twice her size. "This _entire colony_ would've been discontinued years ago, had we not become a pet interest of people whose options back home have been starting to dwindle. Earthside environmental degradation, resource scarcity, and war have been the primary reasons for our prolonged existence. I believe they consider us more of a failsafe than a research station, these days. And we don't tell them otherwise." 

"Which brings us to this," Councilwoman Hodges, who Paul _does_ know, thanks to her having oversight of Engineering, cuts in. "The SA has, in the past few months, has been gaining significant ground on three different continents. According to the most recent databurst, Cape Canaveral and Uchinoura are both offline, possibly permanently, and this is on _top_ of the three launch sites we lost last year."

Keeping his expression neutral, Paul nods, and tries to remember how much he's heard about any of this and finding that there's not as much there as there should be. There'd been six, before the war, distributed throughout the more powerful NATOPS member nations. Jinshan had fallen two years ago. 

So too, apparently, had Capetown and Houston. 

He doesn't miss the glare Lin shoots at Councilwoman Yang and Gregory in turn, but it's Councilwoman Monroe- Spencer's mother- who sighs. "Andrha Pradesh is the only one still operating, but we have to assume it'll be targeted soon."

"Which brings us to your assignment," Councilwoman Monroe leans forward in her chair, looking down the table to him and forestalling any complaint he could make. "For the past several years, we have been able to rely on a steady schedule of resupply runs from Earth." 

"Every six months," Paul nods, burying his anger so as not to give the Council the impression they've made a mistake in promoting him. So he buries his worry for now, and tries to focus. Their next shipment is due in six weeks, and while every docking is an event, this next one will coincide with the Half-Centennial. Preparations have been underway for months, now. 

"Correct," Coates, head of Dockside Operations, nods. "Now, I'm sure you've seen the manifest and already know that the downward trend in new settlers is continuing, but this is the first time in decades that there are absolutely none listed." 

He had noticed it. He'd been pleased to see the decline honestly, taking it as a sign that if fewer people were looking to escape, it must mean that the Earthside hostilities were starting to recede, even if the disembarking refugees were not yet at a point to appreciate it. But something in his face tells him that he should've been paying more attention. 

"With the war going into its third year, military conscriptions have been enacted by almost all of our member nations. We've been planning on releasing that information to the colony at large in two weeks, so that anyone considering a return to Earth has time to make their decision. On the plus side, their absence has created more space on the ship for inbound supplies. And while that's always a good thing, we have to be realistic. The loss of launch sites- we are now down to _one_ \- makes it very likely that the next run will bring more refugees than supplies, and that's an uneasy combination."

"We need to prepare for every eventuality. Better to be safe than sorry." Gregory looks like he's had his fill of waiting for his turn to speak, but not particularly like he wants to be speaking directly to Paul. Instead, he's leaning back in his chair and straightening his collar. "And that's why we've selected you to fill the position Davis' death has left vacant." 

At this, he actually does glance in Paul's direction, frowning. "Though you've yet to set yourself apart in any _meaningful_ fashion, times are changing. While Davis excelled in maintaining the infrastructure these past fifteen years, it has become apparent that some unconventional thinking is in order, and by that measure, we are unanimous in our assessment that you're the one for the job."

Paul's careful to muster something approaching a grin, and tries not to think too hard about what Gregory means by _unconventional_ , since it's clear by his demeanor that _unanimous_ is a lie. 

"Obviously, we considered a wide pool of candidates," Hodges cuts in, exchanging long-suffering glances with Councilman Coates. "There are dozens of engineering administrators who've got the technical know-how. But it's your cross-training in diplomacy that we believe will be the most important for the colony's success." 

That may be true, Paul thinks, regarding them from his seat in the visitor's chair. But that only means that he's had just enough cross-training to suspect there were other factors at work during the selection process, and not nearly enough to give him any indication of what they might've been.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 04/16/2194, 14:45_

Alexandria is one of the shittier structures on the colony, a house retrofit to the skeleton of a library that had burned down two years after the colony had come online. Already by that point, the wheels of Admin's centralization had started to roll, and the planned rebuild had stalled. It wasn't until a generation or so later, once the population had outgrown their first enclave, Old Techniki, that anyone had really put their backs into fighting for it. 

Daryl'd come too late to see it in its original state; as far as he's known, it's always been the same half-ruined structure, patched together with bamboo, scavenged cast-offs, and gray-brown concrete, thrown together with less of a unified plan than anyplace else on Colony One. 

Despite all that, Rick always talks about it like it's the greatest thing that's ever happened. Says that it had been the first time that the Techniki had ever really stood up and demanded something for themselves. They'd had to fight to get water, power, heat, even _air_ , and when Admin had resisted, they'd taken it for themselves anyway. There'd been some fighting after that, and a few people on both sides had died, but the colony had survived. 

It had all been before Daryl's time, but the tensions, he figures, haven't really gone away. They certainly hadn't disappeared. Everyone knows how it is. Admin gets the best and the first of everything before it's routed out here to the grunts. 

Ain't that different from home, really, and hell, sometimes, despite all the shit, it's nicer. Could do with a few more trees, maybe, but beyond that, it beats jail, and it beats starving. And unchanging brown skies beat the _hell_ out of blue-sky bombing raids. 

But yeah. Alexandria ain't the only Techniki housing out here, or even the largest. To the southwest, past the shared chow line, workspaces, and scattered outcroppings of bamboo sheds, lies the OT enclave where he and Merle had stayed there when they'd first arrived. It stands three stories tall, houses the bulk of the Techniki population, and is made of the same gray-brown cement as everything else outside of the Admin enclave's polished white walls. 

OT's a fortress, compared to Alexandria, though that's only been a consideration since the Saviors have started gaining ground over in AdSec. But in that department, Alexandria does have its advantages. 

Fifty years of piecemeal additions have sent Alexandria sprawling well past the original two story's footprint, giving it the appearance of a concrete and bamboo-spiked ship that's wrecked itself in the yard and left sheds scattered everywhere. There's at least thirty percent of it that doesn't exist on any official schematic, and while AdSec's caught on to a few of the extra rooms and closets, they're far from finding everything. 'Course, that might change if anyone ever got it in their heads to police more than the Docks, Admin enclave, or the strip. But the only AdSec who ever come through here are the Saviors.

If the Saviors weren't an issue, they probably wouldn't need to be scattering hiding places all over Alexandria in the first place. But since that's not showing any signs of happening, Alexandria carries on as it's been doing. They get up, hit the chow lines, go to the Techniki Briefing Hall for their daily assignments. They do their work and they come home. They keep watch. 

Sometimes they divert air just to keep breathing; sometimes it's water, other times it's supplies.

Sometimes they hide people until the heat dies off, and sometimes they rap out warnings to each other on the exposed pipes, which make for a fine intercom when the Saviors come through. 

Last week, they'd come out on orders to make sure the debris collecting outside the membrane, over past the SciMed buildings, got bumped up in priority. The week before that, they'd just come to bust heads for fun. 

Today, it looks like someone's finally caught on to the vent diversion, which means things could get ugly, but it's been inevitable. As far as the Admin squints are concerned, kids are half the size of adults, and need half the damned oxygen. 

Fucking assholes. 

Daryl isn't even sure who's tapping out the warning. It ain't Monte, though. He always pounds it out like he's hitting the damned thing with a wrench. What he's hearing now is quick and efficient, growing more clear as it's relayed, room to room, through the building. There's no SOS, though. Daryl figures he's got about five minutes before they get close. It don't matter, though, he only needs the one. 

By the time he makes it down to the crawlspace under what used to be Carol's bed, Aaron's already down there, shutting the valve down and sending the air back through their failsafe up by the catwalk. 

Damn thing up there's been needing to get replaced for three years now, and it looks it. The inspectors- or whatever Saviors have crowned themselves as such today- will be able to feel the leak from a good ten feet away. 

"Alright, I've got it, look lively," Aaron mutters, replacing the panel and standing up, heading over to the desk where he's apparently cleaning the bearings out of an airlock hinge. Out in the hallway, Daryl goes left, nodding to Susie, who's been keeping a casual eye out through the window. 

Glancing out through the open shutters, he confirms that the Saviors are coming up the avenue. They've got their helmets on, but their visors are up, this time, so they're not coming out here expecting to escalate shit any more than usual. But Negan's come with them, this time. 

Daryl takes three steps back and raps once on the wiring channel pipe that runs along the baseboard, muting it with his hand quickly to signal that they're good to go. And then he heads outside to pretend that seeing so many black uniforms standing in the midst of olive-drab Techniki, doesn't fill him with dread. 

They're clear. It'll be fine. A few people are going to have to double up on the second floor where the circulation's better for the next few nights, but it beats suffocating in a room that some idiot, decades back, hadn't thought to vent to the outside. As soon as the heat dies down, they'll start diverting air from intake three again, and everything will go back to normal. 

Daryl joins the group, crowding in like it's clear the Saviors want, but hanging at the back next to Glenn and Michonne, and watches- like they all do- Negan with barely raised eyes. Abe, Sasha and Tara are here- they'd probably gotten rounded up in the workyard, along with Susie, Monte and the others. Abe's got his sealsuit on over his coveralls, but it ain't done up completely yet and he doesn't have his helmet or mask on. He's fidgeting with a few of the clasps, though, like he's trying to make it clear that he's got other places to be.

For his part, Daryl focuses on the blinking light of Simon's body camera. The fucker's already recording.

"You know, it boggles me that people would, in a big, open space like this, need to constantly fuck with the vents." Negan's teeth are blinding white, blunt, but still looking like they could tear through a jugular with no effort at all as he raises his hands. "You feel that? It's _air_. And there's enough of it to go around."

It's half a step up from stagnant, though, and the fucker knows it. Ain't like there's wind in here, _ever_ , outside of the blowers over the 'culturalist fields. 

The way Daryl's heard it, the First Families, when they'd come up here, had taken one good look at the windstorms and thought _nah, man, I don't want no part of that_. They'd stayed on their ship for most of the duration of the colony's initial construction, watching for months as the membrane- eight inches thick, electocharged, self-healing, and clear as glass- had gone up. But miracle that it was, actually going out and _living_ underneath it had almost been a bridge too far. So they'd built their buildings sturdy and airtight, and they'd hoped for the best. 

"Yeah, well, maybe if the engineers would put in for upgraded blowers the way we've been asking for the past _five years_ ," Glenn grumbles quietly to Daryl, keeping his head down so Negan and his cronies don't see. Michonne does, though, and frowns sharply at the ground. 

"Negan." Rick's coming around from the backyard, cutting a line between the two groups to stand square with him. "What's going on?"

"Readings show that there's either a leak, which is on you guys to fix, or a diversion, which is... well, you know. I guess that'd be up to _us_ to fix, now, wouldn't it?"

Rick, ever the diplomat, bobs his head, ignoring the threat. "You got a reading on where it's coming from? Our guys-"

"Shit, you know damn _well_ the only sensor is, what," Dwight, Negan's right-hand man, pulls a mock-stupefied grimace, though it's hard to make out over all the scarring, " _thirty_ meters over there somewhere?" He's pointing directly at the box. Ain't a surprise. It's probably the most fucking argued about piece of tech on this whole planet, aside from the tanks. 

"All right, so we go check it out." Rick looks around at the half dozen Saviors Negan's got with him, all of whom are too well trained to do anything besides glare back stonily. Ignoring their unholstered blasters, he nods placatingly "We know the drill. Where d'you want to start?"

The thing about Rick, Daryl figures, ain't really that he'd been AdSec, back in the days before the Saviors had started splintering off. It ain't even that even then, he'd always had the Techniki's collective back. It's that he comes across like he's totally soft, when he has to. Like a total yes man. Used to drive him nuts- Merle too- but him playing along, doing what he can to keep the Saviors at bay, has kept a whole lot of people from gettin' blasted. All Rick needs is for the rest of them to back him up. 

Merle hadn't seen any sort of sense in that. When they'd first arrived, he'd gotten the lay of the land pretty damned quick, and he'd decided that Negan, who back then had merely been an AdSec who played rough on the weekends but was the first to get his helmet on and visor down come Monday, was gonna be the one worth getting to know. 

It hadn't gone down that way for long, though. Merle had gotten in with a few of the Saviors, though they hadn't started calling themselves that yet, but the core'd been there. Like Merle, most of them had come up through the "Stars Not Bars" programs the legal system'd back on Earth had been cranking out every few months or so, back in the day when they'd needed labor. 

The fact that Daryl hadn't come out of anything more than having nothing better to do- that he'd just tagged along with Merle, same as he'd always done- had been a sticking point, but not so much of one that he hadn't wound up drinkin' with them all on his off-shifts. 

The last time it had happened, Daryl'd blinked up through a drunken haze just in time to see Merle takin' off with one of that fuck Dwight's lady friends. But then he'd passed out again, and he still ain't sure what'd happened after that. 

Wasn't even until after Rick broke the news the next afternoon, and led him to the membrane to show him Merle's body, that he'd even figured that something must've. 

\--- 

"We're gonna start at the top, branch down," Negan's telling them now. "And you better hope like hell we find it damned _quick_. I got places to be, and, if I'm remembering the duty roster right, you've got an airlock door that needs upgrading in the next 24 hours. I'm sure y'all want to move on to that as soon as freakin' possible. So. I need three of you to come with us, and the rest of you can get back to work."

Daryl'd be standing rooted to the spot regardless- it never pays to draw Negan's attention one way or the other- but the truth of the thing is, he ain't so keen on going outside, these days, not that he ever had been. 

He steps forward, trying not to nod too fast. It's a dangerous thing for him, he figures, looking too eager. Almost as bad as resisting. 

" _Dogboy_ Daryl Dixon! That's great, buddy, it's been a while." Negan steps up to him, so close that their boots nearly touch. Only Negan's are a lot cleaner than his. "Been wondering when it was we were gonna hang again. Good to see you." 

He's careful not to flinch when Negan claps him on the shoulder, but Negan's attention's already sliding back to the rest of the group. "Abe, my _man_! You still gunning for a hundred? Where you at now?"

"98." Abe actually grins. Word is, while Rick had quit AdSec, Abe'd been _fired_. Which would probably make him one of Negan's favored henchmen, if he were 25% more of an asshole. 

"Well, I ain't looking to stand in the way of breakin' your record. You just get on with that whole _making sure the whole colony doesn't get depressurized inside of eight minutes_ thing."

Abe nods gruffly as Negan waves him off, shooting an apprehensive glance at Sasha before heading for the workyard where the rest of his gear must be.

Negan's continuing on down the line, smiling like he's greeting old friends at a party. "Monte, right? How's about you and Michonne come along with me and Daryl, here. We make quick work of it, y'alls will be done by the time the kids are comin' home from school."

Last time they'd come through, it had been a Friday. It had taken all weekend to get Carl and the others calmed down. 

Daryl tries to shoot Rick a glance, like _okay, I got this_ , only he's not sure it gets through. Either way, a moment later, Negan's waving him, Michonne and Monte all down, and his Saviors are herding them towards the catwalk access tower. 

They just have to string this out for about five minutes, until they come up to the dodgy pipe. Another fifteen, and they'll have it fixed and sealed properly, and for the next few days, Admin will have a little easier time breathing. 

Daryl already knows he's not the only one who's gonna be holding his breath until the Saviors are gone. It's just the way of things. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 04/16/2194, 12:08_

After signing the nondisclosure agreements for before leaving the Chambers Tuesday evening, Paul's has one day to switch gears for the new job. Once he's handed off the plans for the construction of the Half-Centennial soundstage to Annie, there's no reason for him to remain in the Engineering office, and several reasons not to. 

His promotion will be announced colony-wide tomorrow, along with the team selections HR has yet to finalize. In the meantime, his colleagues in Engineering only are getting nervous. They know that something's going on. Not to the point where anyone's making any attempts to ask him about it, but just enough that Paul can feel everyone watching him and _thinking_ about it. 

Maybe it would be different if he had friends, here, or if his stepfather wasn't the Governor. 

But it is what it is, and the walls are holding. So he retreats to his quarters to find that IT's already been through, and starts filling out reassignment orders for the team he has yet to meet. They're probably not going to be thrilled to be pulled off their current assignments to report to the likes of him, so he spends a few hours pulling together some basic information. 

The least he could do is give them enough to start with, since it's not as if the _Council_ had seen fit to worry about it. But in the end, he's going to have to be in the room with them, actually talking, to find out what he's going to need in that department. 

By about 15:00, he's run out of things to do, so he sets himself to familiarizing himself with the resources his clearance upgrade has earned him. 

Level five's the highest it's possible to get without being on the Council, and now that the IT department's finished updating his records, scrubbing his comms and upgrading his computer, he's got nearly unfettered access to the entire system. Not just the Engineering servers, either. He can pull up Ag department reports at the touch of a button, can reprioritize work orders without submitting a request first. 

What's surprising, though, is the level of access he's got for SciMed and HR. Apparently, as PM for the Infrastructure, he's got read-only permission across the board: pharmacy inventories, patient records, personnel transfer requests, all of it. It takes most of the day just to start finding his way around the new systems. 

It's mid-afternoon when he closes the file browser down and sees a new icon in the corner of his screen. 

SVIOR. 

He can't help glancing up and around his spartan quarters. There are no cameras in here. But it doesn't mean his session's not being logged. 

Still, it's on there. Installed on his screen, and there's probably a reason for it. Despite this, he opens it up with trepidation, which is only eased somewhat when he finds himself being logged in automatically. If he's not supposed to be looking at the Administrative Security system, at least it's not entirely his fault. 

Very little of it makes sense, at first. He'd seen the odd screen here and there since then whenever his workday had intersected with AdSec's. And back in school, they'd all gotten an introduction to it as part of their specialization selection semester. 

The last time he'd gotten together with anyone outside of his department had probably been a year ago, when Tara'd gotten it in her head to pull a dozen or so of her old classmates together for drinks. Heath had stopped by once his AdSec shift was over, but he'd still had his gear with him, and he'd shown them the camera feeds. 

At the time, Paul had been a little drunk and a little distracted, since seeing Heath without his AdSec helmet on, dreads falling over his shoulders, had apparently been enough to trigger a low-grade crush that Paul still hasn't bothered to shake. 

This, honestly, is what he thinks about as he starts poking through the menus, bringing up files at random. There's a yellow message popping open on the main screen: System Vulnerability Incident: Organized Response. 

In the time it takes Paul to read even that much, the alert's being upgraded from yellow to red. A link to open the live feed appears; someone in AdSec dispatch is already responding with oversight control, but the feed link doesn't disappear. 

Just because he's got the clearance, Paul knows, it doesn't make this his business. 

He glances nervously towards his bed, then back to the screen, and opens the link anyway. 

It's out by the Techniki housing- not a surprise, they're always showing up on the newsfeeds, causing problems- but it still takes him a minute to make sense of what he's seeing. 

There's five, six people maybe, underneath the steps up to the southern catwalk. There's too much shouting for the audio to be of any real use, though from what he's seeing, that would just make it worse. 

At first all he sees is the sea of black AdSec uniforms, but once a few move away, he can see three Techniki in their customary olive drab. They're being shoved up against the railing by the steps of some building, panting and wary. None of them are looking up at the camera, but whoever's opened the feed is moving around for a better shot. 

It takes only an instant for him to recognize Negan. He's tall, with slicked back hair, a non-regulation leather jacket, and a grin that makes him always look like he's about to take a bite out of someone. 

Paul's never spoken with him directly. A lot of people haven't, including, word has it, Negan's commanding officers, and including Gregory. 

Which is unfortunate, because as far as anyone can tell- even Paul's heard the rumors- Negan's crew is mere inches away from pulling out of security completely and becoming their own fucked up gang of a police force. They still have all the AdSec gear- the blasters, helmets and body armor, at least, though they're not wearing their visors- but they've been walking around, calling themselves Saviors, for months now. 

Gregory, the one time he'd mentioned it, had insisted it was merely a morale thing. 

"They don't get the cushy positioning of standing guard in a hallway, or monitoring the docks from a screen. They're out there, on patrol," he'd said. "When the Techniki start holding our air and our water hostage, it's _their_ job to take care of it. If they want to see themselves as cowboys on the frontier, I'm not going to undermine team dynamics by getting in their way."

Never mind the fact that the team dynamic seems to be beating down anyone who looks at them funny. 

Onscreen, Negan's shoulder and arm is shifting out of view. The bodycam settles again, focusing on the suspects- and- _shit_.

One of them is Rick Grimes, who's been the de-facto leader of the Techniki, as much as they have one, for a while now. Next to him is a woman Paul knows only vaguely by sight, tool bag slung over her coveralls, though the sleeves have been ripped or cut off. Her dreadlocks flail as she stumbles to the side as two more people shove into the frame. 

One of them is Simon, Negan's second in command, and he's shoving another Techniki into the lineup; he's got shaggy brown hair and what looks to be wings painted on the back of his coveralls.

Worse, though, the Techniki's resisting, and there's too much jostling, too many Saviors crowding in for Paul to see what's happening. but one of the Saviors is following them down with a punch and what looks like- it's offscreen, hard to tell- a kick. 

When Simon clears the frame, Grimes and the woman are dragging their compatriot up to his feet, attempting to put themselves between him and the Saviors.

"Get his arms," Negan calls out, and two of his men waste no time shoving their way back in to shove Grimes aside. They get a grip on the man, and drag him out in front of the others. 

He must've been the one who'd sabotaged the vents, Paul reasons. 

Still. 

Negan steps around the crowd, though, to grab Grimes by the shoulder. "The kid's one thing, Rick. Carl's young. He's _allowed_ to be stupid." Grimes glares back at him, but it doesn't seem to phase Negan at all; he turns away to address the guy his men have singled out. His hair's hanging down in his face, thanks to the angle, and he jerks his head to the side when Negan steps into his space. 

" _You,_ however, _really_ need to learn how to stay in your lane, son. " 

He yanks the man's head up and back, and the camera gets its first good shot of him. Most of the Techniki are scruffy, so it's hard to tell if the facial hair's deliberate or not, and deep lines around his eyes that look older than the rest of his face. His eyes are flash sharp and angry, gray or maybe blue, as he snarls back at Negan's face. 

"Same goes for you, asshole."

Paul freezes, watching at least two blasters being unholstered, and waits to see if the idiot's going to get himself killed. 

He starts scanning the screen, looking to for something that will disrupt the situation, but he's just cleared for read-only. He can't actually _do_ anything. Not that Negan would listen to him anyway. Thankfully, whoever's over in AdSec has finally decided to get off their ass; another feed is opening, audio only. 

"This is AdSec dispatch." Paul doesn't recognize the voice, but at least everyone on camera seems to go still. "Someone want to tell me what the _hell_ is going on out there?"

He can see Negan's shoulder jerk; it might be a laugh that comes over the line as he takes the comms out of the hands of whoever's bodycam's catching all of this. "Things escalated quickly." He leans down to smirk dismissively into the camera. "We were following up on the leak report, as per requested on the ticket, and we ran into some resistance."

"That may be," dispatch replies, "but I'm looking at the system right now. Wherever the issue was, the numbers are back where they should be. It's been fixed. Stand down."

"Oh, sure thing, boss. Right away." Negan lets the man's head go with a shove, and grins into the camera. "Just wanted to give these assholes pause, the next time they take it upon themselves to engage in a little light espionage."

"And from the looks of it, that's been managed. I expect to see your team's report in the system in the next half hour."

Behind Negan, Paul can see that Simon's holstering his sidearm, just as Negan's telling Grimes something about keeping his dogs on a leash, but the feed cuts out.

He supposes it's a victory, though it's not his, and it's probably ultimately pointless in the long run. But it's better than nothing. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 04/16/2194, 19:10_

"Well, _that_ was a brilliant plan," Sasha tells him, passing him a cold pack wrapped in a rag, which he puts on his shoulder because holding it up to his head's gonna just make her worry. "Could'a gotten yourself killed, you know that, right?"

Daryl shrugs, mindful of his shoulder. Ain't no point in getting into it, it's over with. Gettin' roughed up's better that than Carl getting blasted for reacting like he did. 

The kid's got a future, long as he keeps in line. He's seventeen, though, and seventeen's the same kind of stupid here as it is on Earth. Parents're the same, too, by the sounds of it. The sound of Rick's shouting's been rattling the busted up shutters of Daryl's bedroom for the past twenty minutes. 

Carl's gonna be bunking there the next few days, on account of his own room being too suffocating to sleep in, and Daryl's gonna be bunking up here, since last time they'd had to shut the vents down and they'd gone through this, Carl hadn't shut up all goddamned night. He don't seem to be sayin' all that much now, though. Probably just mumbling shit under his breath, working himself up into a snit for the rest of the weekend. 

Sasha's finally heading for the edge of the roof, so he's off the hook as far as responding goes. Or not- one hand on the ladder, she's turning around to look at him again. 

"Look," she says. "I know he messed up. He walked into all that, got spooked, and he mouthed off. It happens. It doesn't mean that _you_ jumping in and bringing a screwdriver to a gun fight's gonna make the odds any better. That's all I'm saying, you hear me?"

"Yeah."

"All right. Me and Susie are heading out to the strip. You want anything to eat? I'm buying." 

"I'm good. Might hit the chow line later." He's a little nauseas, to be honest, but he ain't planning on bein' _that_ honest, so he lies. Besides. It ain't so bad that he's gonna be puking or anything, and he ain't so hungry that he's planning on setting foot anywhere near the strip tonight, with the way things went down today. 

At least when they're on duty, the Saviors have their body cams on. After hours, nobody gives a shit what they get up to. 

"Get some sleep," she says, finally throwing one leg over the edge. "If you change your mind and want a ride to SciMed tomorrow morning, Eric'll have the cart keys."

"Yeah." His shoulder's starting to throb again. Ain't dislocated or anything, it's just gonna be stiff and weak for the next few days. If he does go in, all they'll do is make him strip down to look at it, send him off with more anaprox and another cold pack, and he's got plenty of both in his kit. 

Maybe they'd give him something stronger for his head, though. It might be worth it. 

She disappears down over the side of the building, her boots ringing out against the bamboo rungs of the ladder, and he's finally alone. Scratching at the bandage he'd wrapped around his arm- the scrape's not actually all that bad, just raw as hell- he makes his way over to his bedroll and leans back against it, staring up at the membrane. Maybe out through it, he ain't rightly sure. 

Sasha's probably right. He could've gotten himself killed. Maybe that would've been the end of it, maybe they just woulda shot Rick and Carl right after. Ain't no way of knowing. 

There'd been a minute, after that fuck Dwight- the one with the fucked up face- had turned off his bodycam, where they could've gotten away with anything. It's doubtful that the AdSec who'd dialed in had done much of anything to cool them out, though he had managed to give the Saviors something new to bitch about. 

Somewhere, on the other end of the colony, there's an AdSec squint sitting in his cubicle, patting himself on the back that his patrol officers had bent to his orders. That he'd really _earned_ his credits for the day. Never mind the fact that Negan's crew is only following them on a whim, that they only bother turning the body cams on nine times out of ten. Whether AdSec or any of the other Admin squints know that or not doesn't really matter, though. It obviously hasn't changed anything out here. Probably looks the same from where they're sitting anyway. 

Daryl's only been inside any of the shiny white Admin offices a handful of times, since the systems that call for Techniki labor tend to not be housed anywhere they'd be considered an eyesore, so all he really knows about them for certain is that they don't give a damn about people until the paperwork comes due. 

After spending months on a ship and arriving two and a half years back, he'd been too dazed to notice much of anything beyond the presence of non-artificial gravity and the feeling of actual sunlight, as dim and as weak as it had been. He knows the second time he'd had to go over there, to sign off on Merle's death certificate, he'd wished for that level of disconnection. 

It wasn't until nine, ten months ago- AdSec summoned him to report that he didn't know anything about Carol's disappearance, 'cause apparently they'd needed that _in person_ \- that he'd really given the offices any thought at all. By then, he'd started to get used to the fact that things on the colony didn't look like they did on Earth, and things like wall clocks, computers with keyboards, and fake potted plants had suddenly started looking surreal. There'd been a picture on the wall of the lobby, a group picture of the first colonists that hadn't ever struck him as anything worth lookin' at. But the frame hadn't been plastic, or the lab-grown bamboo that seemed to merge with the metal and polymer everywhere else in the colony. It had been actual, honest-to-god _wood_. 

He's not sure what it was about people that made them cram themselves into a tin can for six months at a time just so they can set up rows of cubicles on an empty terraformed rock at the ass-end of the universe, but he thinks maybe that's why Admin's so fucked in the head. 

They can't admit to themselves where they actually _are_ , so they don't try to look. 

\---

Downstairs, Rick is leaving Carl's room, and for a minute Daryl listens for the sound of footsteps on the ladder. But they don't come. Someone'll probably be up here after shift change, since the inner rooms are going to be uncomfortable as hell, if not completely unlivable, for the next few days. He's not the only one who'll be bunking up top tonight. 

Unwrapping the cold pack, he wedges it underneath his shoulder, settles the rag over his eyes, and tries to convince himself that it's dark, that it's night. That the soreness in his back and shoulder, and the headache stabbing up through the anaprox, are due to an exhaustion no more meaningful than tiredness. 

If he had wind and trees, out here, and maybe a few beers in him, he'd probably be passed out already.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two in a day!

_Thursday, 04/17/2194 09:17_

This morning is the first time the selections for Paul's team have been in a room together. It's still too early to see how well they'll work as a unit, but so far, given their interactions, he's at least pleased to find that he hadn't selected a complete nightmare of an individual.

Connor McBride, from Dockside, is the only one who Paul doesn't know personally, but his reputation speaks volumes. He'd been a few years ahead of him in school, and by the time Paul had been wasting away in his diplomacy classes, Connor had been getting promoted up out of Techniki and into engineering. From there, he'd gone back for training to work with the Dockside facilities and then from _there_ , he'd made pilot. If there's a better jack-of-all-trades on the colony, Paul's never heard of one.

Dale Hovarth is second generation First Family, and he's been bouncing around between Engineering and Research for as long as Paul can remember. Compared to Connor, he's easygoing and relaxed, but he pulls his weight and he's good with people. Which is going to be important, because Paul's other selection from Engineering is Eugene Porter. 

Eugene had arrived five years ago, and Paul's only worked with him a handful of times. Those projects had seldom gone well, on account of Eugene being a rigid thinker, more systematic than most and less willing to listen to other people. The thing is, though, on the occasions where disputes had arisen, Eugene's estimates had proven right. Every single time. 

Marlene Onwudiwe, apart from specializing in logistics, resource procurement, and deployment, had been his manager in Engineering for several years, before he'd made the jump to Project Management himself. Unlike most people in Admin, himself included more often than he'd like to admit, she actually gets out past the enclave and finds out what's really happening on the Colony. 

While none of them are particularly thrilled to find out the reasons behind their new assignments, don't seem surprised. 

"Figured something like this was coming," Connor says. "The relay transmissions come in through Dockside. Communications is where it all gets scrubbed, but a few of the squints have been hanging around lately, looking nervous."

"According to every logical calculation, the odds of this happening at least once before the war ends have been riding at a very solid five to one for the past several months," Eugene adds. "As far as the longevity of this breakdown goes, however, there is no model in place for assessment by which we could devise a workable response."

"Then we do what we always do," Dale says. "Hope for the best, plan for the worst. We've got one ship in transit, right?"

"The SS Ambition, it's due next month," Marlene confirms. 

"Well, we've got the manifest on file, and as far as cutting apron strings go, we've got more warning than most."

"Resupplies account for about 20 percent of our resources on average," she points out, easily by rote. "If we're looking at something like food, sprouts and seeds, that's only about eight percent. But medicines, upgraded hardware, that's more like forty, and we're looking at diminishing returns fairly quickly if those disappear." She pulls something up on her tablet, and shakes her head, grinning. "Silver lining, though. The new chem combine equipment made it onto the Ambition. With that, Ag and SciMed should be able to generate aspirin and opiates independently, more in line with our antibiotics levels."

"All right," Paul grins, reining them in before they go diving into their work without any organized plan. " We have until the 5th to come up with a prioritized plan. Not only for long term, independent stability, but for the very real possibility that we are looking at a renewed immigration wave. If we are tightening our belts, it means we need to have this plan in place before the SS Ambition arrives, since we don't want to blindside anyone during distribution." 

"What," Dale snorts. "Who's to say a little rioting isn't good for the soul?"

"I think that's what the council's most worried about," Paul says. 

"Are they opening up emigration again?"

Paul nods. "The links are still live, as of the last databurst there've been no changes. The Council will, along with all other colony-wide communication, be getting the information regarding that out as well; I believe they're sticking to the usual routine of bundling it in with the ship's relay checkpoint databursts. For the sake of our planning, however, I think it's best that we proceed with a model that includes no population shifting back to Earth."

"Better to be over-prepared than under," Dale agrees. 

"So. The 5th is our deadline, in order to give the Ambition a heads up and to give any prospective emigrants enough time to prepare. As far as implementation goes, we need to have everything in place before they arrive at the end of next month."

"If the launch sites are all compromised, anyway," Marlene asks, the beads in her braids jostling as she looks up, "how's heading back going to do anyone any good?"

"Landing doesn't require a launch facility," Dale reminds her, patiently; she's more of a logistics and resources person than an engineer, and will be focusing more on the long-term planning in the event that a mass evacuation is not warranted or wanted. For his part, Dale's more of a hardware guy; if Admin had a liaison to the Techniki, he'd probably be it, but the truth is the Techniki haven't needed one for about twenty years now. Or it could just be, Paul suspects, that Dale's too live and let live to go out and micromanage. He reminds Paul a lot of Dr. Borowitz, his physics teacher. "Narrower window, which we can't afford to miss. Everything else, we have more time to handle."

"Fair enough," she says, but her brow wrinkles. "People are going to freak, though, if we drop an evacuation plan in their laps with no warning." She looks at Paul. "You said this is all level five?"

"That's right," he confirms. "They've determined, irritatingly but understandably, that presenting it as _an_ option, rather than _the_ option, will keep the panic at bay, so alongside the evacuation plan, we are going to be developing a term for long term sustainability here on the Colony." He looks around to the rest of the group. "Toward that end, we've all had our security clearances upgraded. While we've been given permission to ask the questions we need to ask, the Council doesn't want us spilling the motives behind them to anyone below level five. As far as getting even _that_ much goes, we've got Councilwoman Lin to thank for it."

"Well, she _is_ the head of research," Marlene explains, glancing at Dale who's laughing to himself. "Think she only took the spot on the Council to save time spent marching down there to light fires under their collective ass every two days."

"She is a smart and well-spoken woman," Eugene agrees, "and I have every confidence that she made her point as clear as day." It's the first time he's spoken in the past half hour, but he's not wrong. Lin _had_ gone up against Gregory when he'd pushed for total confidentiality. Gregory, of course, had tried his usual methods of dismissing her, rolling his eyes, smirking, and trying to speak over her, but Lin hadn't let him interrupt.

"Look, _Gregory_ ," she'd said at the briefing this morning, shooting Gregory a look that could've cut glass.. "I'm willing to pull two of my best assets of other projects, including, and you may remember this, it's in section two of the charter- looking for planets where we can breathe the _air_. I'm not going to waste their time squandering them on one where they'll be cut off at the knees."

"Well, if your department would've just _found_ one by now, we wouldn't be in this mess, dear."

"One, you're confusing sexism with charm again. Two, we can't control where useful planets are any more than you, apparently, can negotiate with NATOPS to get us the resources we need to _do_ so. This team is going to need to talk to people if they're going to figure out what we've got and what we need. If you don't allow them that, then all you're going to get is a few best guesses, and honestly, any researchers who'd be in support of _that_ have probably found other work by now. So you can take it or leave it."

He'd never seen Lin in action, but the reality had trumped the stories. He'd been biting a hole in his cheek, trying not to grin, when Councilwoman Yang- the Chief Information Officer- had coughed quietly and offered a compromise. 

He thinks about telling the team this, what he'd seen and what she'd said, but it's not useful, really. And it would throw the managerial tone he's been trying to maintain right out the window. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 04/20/2194, 09:11_

Daryl really should get his shit in line for the laundry machines, but if he's going down there anyway, he might as well get a shower in at the same time. But it'll be five credits wasted if all he's going to do is come back here and get covered in grease cleaning out the bearing case for support strut 118. Only thing is, Abe's still got his quadrex screwdrivers from the airlock job, and if he's going to head over that way to retrieve them, he's going to be going right past the showers anyway. 

There's probably an easy solution, here, but he's too sore and too exhausted to see it. Bob had splurged on a bottle of vodka last night, and Eric and Aaron had convinced him that letting Bob finish it on his own was just irresponsible. Doubly so, figuring that a little self-medication might be worthwhile. His appointment to get cleared for full duty isn't even until Friday. 

He hadn't slept right, afterwards; all he'd managed was intermittent dozes punctuated by periods of tossing, turning, and glaring at the shutters he still hasn't fixed while trying to find a position that's anything approximating comfortable. He's thinking a lot about Merle this morning, so it could've been the usual dream again. Or it could just be sense memory; it's been a while since he's been this hungover. 

So he's less than thrilled when Carl decides that it's time for Daryl Dixon's Saturday Morning Storytime. 

"Dad said you said you came up 'cause of the war," he says, still leaning in the doorway. He'd brought him coffee from the mess line, and the fact that he'd known it was wanted without saying shit about it means Daryl owes him some sort of answer. 

"You talking about that shit in school or something?"

"We're on World War II, but it's come up. So. Did you?"

"Weren't that simple." 

Carl nods, as if to say _it never is_ , but he's too young to really know that shit, and he's probably just waiting for him to continue. "You fight anyone?"

"Fought a lot of people. Some of it might've been part of the bigger thing, towards the end. But no. The bad shit hadn't gotten that far east yet, it was before the EMPs. Wasn't until I already had my ticket that we started getting any flyovers or bombing raids."

"Bombing raids?"

"Yeah. It was fucked up. Never knew who was dropping them, had to scatter all the same."

It had made things hell, the last few months Earthside, when most of the state had suddenly caught onto the idea of _hey, this place sucks, let's go to space_. 

Merle's Stars Not Bars ticket, for the next ship out, had been sorted out through the courts five months before the launch. While Merle had waited it out down at County Lockup, Daryl'd sold off their bikes to get the cash for his own ticket, clear up his ID situation, and pay off a few debts that seemed likely to follow them. By the time he'd gotten it all sorted, he'd still had two months to wait before he'd meet Merle at the launch site. 

Those two months had seemed a hell of a lot longer than they'd probably actually been. 

He'd mostly been stayin' at the cabin Mom's family hadn't bothered with since she'd passed. At first, without Merle there, stirring up shit, it had felt like what a vacation must've felt like. Day in, day out, nobody getting into his business or starting shit. He'd spent most of his time in the woods, figuring on storing it up against a six month interplanetary flight. He'd hunted in the mornings, prepped and ate his own kills; everything else, beer included, was covered by the motorcycle money. And at night, he could sit outside and smoke, or stay in and read, unbothered. He'd gotten through four books- dumb shit he'd picked up at Goodwill- inside of a month, and figured it for some kind of record that he still hasn't beat. 

He'd been starting in on his fifth, he remembers, when an explosion outside had shaken the cabin hard enough to splinter two of the crossbeams.

"First time it happened," he tells Carl, since this is probably the kind of shit the kid's actually interested in, "I was staying at a cabin out in the woods. There was this loud crash- thought it was thunder, or like lightning striking one of the trees outside. I go outside, and there was this, like, glow, out past the trees, about a quarter mile out. Took me a minute to realize it was fire. Just stood there like an idiot, staring at it. Wasn't until I went into town the next morning that I realized what had gone down. Someone'd bombed the oil refinery out in the shale fields west of town. I dunno if it was oil that caught, or if they'd dropped napalm or something, but there was smoke everywhere. Most places were closed, like the strip during curfew. Everyone else was just standing around in the streets, watching the smoke."

"Is that when you decided to come up here?"

"Already had my ticket by then, me and my brother." He looks at Carl. "You ever meet him?"

Carl's got a shitty poker face. "I heard some things about him. Like when you were still staying at OT."

"Yeah, well." He doesn't, honestly, feel much like talking at all, much less about Merle. "See, before the bombing raids, people'd been desperate to get people moved up here to work. Like, the colony was old news, not really going anywhere, just hanging out in space and not a lot of people were interested, right?"

Carl nods. He'd been born here, but half the small talk, colony wide, seems to be based on when people'd come up. The ins and outs of emigration, that sort of shit; it's probably made it onto his radar by now. 

He sips his coffee, wondering when Carl's going to get bored, hearing him talk about this shit. "Right. So anyway, Merle got his ticket through the courts, and I bought mine 'cause there wasn't much else to do down there and I figured what the hell. Didn't hear until later that people'd started buying tickets like crazy after I got mine. Drove the prices up and shit, and then people started fighting over that too. So there was the war on the one side, and your neighbors tryin' to steal your shit on the other."

"Were there any more bombing raids?"

"Like two? I think. But they weren't so close to where I was staying. Got smart after that first one, kept clear of people and stayed out in the sticks. Atlanta got hit bad, though. Made getting out down to Cape Canaveral a complete bitch 'cause it fucked up all the bus lines."

"You said there was rioting. You ever have to fight anyone there?"

"Wasn't until I was down in Florida that it got bad. Didn't know where I was going, and there were all these scammy fuckers in the streets, trying to screw everyone over. Had a gun pointed in my face over my wallet, but then they got distracted by some other gang of fuckers on the street and I clocked the guy one, got my shit back."

He's editing, here. It had been a girl, early twenties, and even with the gun in her hands, she'd been as scared and freaked out as everyone else. 

"You think something like that could happen up here?"

Ain't that the fucking question. "Dunno. Took Earth getting up to nine billion people for it to become an issue there. We still have room here, though." They also have 1300 people on a rock that's still at least partially dependent on resupplies from Earth, and for all everyone's talk about the Charter and the First Families' plans for Colony One, the _haves_ and the _have nots_ are starting to look as distinct as anywhere else Daryl's never seen. 

Not that he needs to tell the kid that.

"But the war's still going."

"Far as I know, yeah." It could've suddenly worn itself out, but there's been nothing on the newsfeeds about it. "Doubt it, though."

That, apparently, was what Carl'd apparently needed to hear; he's nodding and edging back towards the doorway. But just when Daryl thinks he's about to be left in peace with the remains of his coffee, Carl looks back at him.

"I know you came with your brother. You come up here with anyone else?"

That's a weird fucking question. "Why?"

"Just wondering. Lot of people come up with their parents, or wives, or... something. Never heard you say anything about it."

 _You ever see me hanging out with people?_ is right on the tip of his tongue, but with Carl looking at him like he's just realized he'd fucked up or touched a sore spot or something, he thinks better of it. "Nah, it was just Merle and me."

"That's cool," Carl grins, suddenly. "Dad would freak out if I pulled something like that with Judith."

Daryl's startled into laughing, even though the notion of Will Dixon giving a flying fuck one way or the other, if he'd still been alive, is probably even more laughable. But he can picture Rick, red-faced, veins popping on his forehead, and that tone he takes with Carl whenever he's trying not to shout. 

"Yeah," he says, wiping his hand on his shirt, feeling an uncomfortable pull in his shoulder as he dries the coffee he'd sloshed over his fingers. "He would. So don't."


	4. Chapter 4

_Monday, 04/22/2194, 11:15_

Only a few days in, and the team's already had to shift their focus. It would be easier if they could've started out with something other than figuring out how to refit the Ambition for a possible mass exodus, but once it lands, they'll only have two weeks to turn it around. 

Regardless of whatever happens, it'll be at least six months before another ship arrives. The Colony might be looking at tough times ahead, but they'll have more time to work out implementation for any long-term goals. Besides, as Dale is fond of reminding them, they've been mostly on their own out here for fifty years. They're already more sustainable than anything going on down Earthside. 

It's taken all weekend to download and decrypt the schematics and long-form databursts NATOPS has relayed out to them regarding the Ambition. Compared to the SS Akagi, it's _huge_ , but it's a carrier-class ship; they don't waste life support on the hangars during flight. It works just fine for supply storage, but housing any sizable population there will require substantial energy output. 

That's not what's troubling, however. Level five clearance means that Paul's gained access to communiques routed to Dockside. Most of them are crew updates, since the Dockside workers, by virtue of their location and roles, interact more closely with the resupply ships and Earthside than anyone else. Which means that, though brief to save data, there are notes and asides being sent along with the data. 

While Connor, Eugene, and Dale argue about the finer points of life support on a ship none of them have ever actually seen, he and Marlene have been going through the manifests. She's got an eye for deployment upon their arrival, and he, now that he knows they exist, is scanning through the accompanying messages. 

What he's finding isn't good. The first one is unsettling, but the second and third only seem confirm it. 

The Council either doesn't know, or they've been holding out on them. 

The first one reads, _Hey Chuck, you might want to warn food service, the strip, and 'culturalists: the supply chains out of India are getting tight, thanks to those SA fucks. You're gonna be light on pepper and cumin, but we're sending seeds, you'll want to see about getting those growing_.

The second is attached to a computer parts order. _Nothing new or flashy this time. R &D's taken a hit locally. NATOPS is trying to position themselves to go in through Afghanistan though and if they clear it, Andhra Pradesh might be able to pull something together._

The last one might not carry the weight of an official statement from NATOPS, but it's easily the most troubling. _Germany hasn't managed to confirm anything coming out of India, so we're going ahead and sending the scanners along six months early. If they start replying to their fucking emails, we'll update you but we haven't heard anything from AP in two weeks._

He knows they've been on the verge. Already down to one site, no way to control it. If Andra Pradesh is falling out of communication, it could mean that they've got an SA-shaped problem they're trying to deal with instead. 

He clears his throat, calls the guys over, and tells them what he's seeing. 

"Everyone? I think we need to start planning as if Andhra Pradesh is no longer an ongoing concern. There's been no official statement, but the site's dropping out of communication."

"Fuck," Connor glares, raking a hand through his hair before angrily jabbing at his tablet. 

"Fuck indeed," Eugene agrees, not moving at all. Like movement seems as pointless as anything else they're doing, here. 

\---  
_Monday, 04/22/2194, 13:48_

After breaking for two hours, they've come back to it, ready to focus. They're looking at two worst-case scenarios, now, one in which nobody on the colony decides to leave, and one in which, unnerved by the increasingly inevitable prospect of being cut off completely, _everyone_ does.

Paul rubs a hand over his face. He's going cross-eyed and brain-dead. He might be trained as an engineer, but the structures he's learned to maintain aren't hurtling through space at several times the speed of light. 

That's enough for a serious headache on its own, but on top of it, up until a few days ago, he'd been getting orders from the people he's now expected to coordinate with. He'd done well enough to earn the promotion, but none of that counterbalances the fact that he's still the new guy, here.

"If we load out the refrigeration unit," he suggests, looking up from the schematic, "we'd gain five square meters and 17 kilos."

Connor gives him a withering look, one that transmits _exactly_ what he thinks of Paul's promotion, his parentage, and probably his very existence in the universe, if not on the team. Eugene, for his part, is staring at him like he's just grown a second head. Thankfully, Connor speaks before Eugene can open his mouth. "It counterbalances the jump stabilizer on the other side," he points it out. Stupid, not to have thought of that. "If this is gonna be an ark, we don't need it keeling over in rough waters."

Paul keeps his expression bland- there's no shaking the feeling that he's the kid being allowed at the grownups' table for the first time and utterly blowing it- but Connor's right. 

Maybe it's just that they're all more seasoned than he is. He's worked with Eugene before, and Marlene too, but rarely as equals, and he's never been in charge of their work. Connor's not just Dockside, though. He's _respected_ , and not just because he'd gone up in a dinghy to singlehandedly prevent a cruiser from turning the colony into a crater. 

He's got the brains, and he's got the chops. He's also got a huge chip on his shoulder about working with mere base _Admin_. Especially, Paul figures, ones who've probably only gotten this far thanks to nepotism. 

Marlene shakes her braids out of the way and raises a hand to her ear; she's being hailed on comms. She shoots him a sympathetic grin as she takes it out into the hall, leaving him, for the time being, utterly without allies. Eugene is mathematical to the point of fatalism: depressing, but useful. It's what earned him the reputation of being the smartest person on the colony, and also the one who needed to be kept most isolated _from_ the colony, if only to reduce the bloodshed. 

Not a whole lot of people would be heartened by the monotone in which Eugene declares, "Unless the situation back on Earth improves dramatically in the next ten days, there are up to 1300 colonists who will need to fit on board a ship built for cargo, not people. Without a lengthy overhaul that we are neither stocked nor manned to undertake, it'll only hold about 70% of the population." 

"Our first best bet's the load-in armature," Connor decides, eyes not straying from the schematics. "At Least as far as floor space goes. If they're scrubbing the mission upon return, it's not like anyone'll miss it anyhow."

"That only clears eighteen square meters, and is therefore not a solution." Eugene probably only _sounds_ like he's pulling the number out of thin air. 

"I didn't say that was the _only_ thing we'd need to consider," Connor glances up, looking certain, but not aggressive. Apparently his pragmatism works well with Eugene's complete and utter lack of social skills. "Just the heaviest and most disposable." He shrugs. "Do we have the combined prospective inventory list yet?"

"Marlene has already been going through it looking for things that can be pulled from here," Paul says, trying not to show how relieved he is to be of any use at all as he brings the preliminaries up on the screen. 

"The food, obviously, will have to be rationed out for emigrants, along with medical supplies and the like." She pats at her scalp, attempting not to dislodge her newly tightened braids. "So far, we're not looking at any attrition for equipment, construction materials-"

"Okay," Connor nods, which is probably as close to actual approval as he's ever likely to get. "Tell her we're going to need that list when she's done so we can get a look at how much floor space we've recovered."

Paul nods back, though he's already been running the preliminary numbers. According to their best estimates, once they manage to unload the cargo, they'll increase the available weight load very quickly. People don't stack as easily as crates, though. It's just not giving them much by way of useful room; they haven't even _started_ looking at life support, yet. Switching screens on his tablet, brings up the Techniki job queue and increases the priority flags on the respirator inventory and repair from level six to level one. Two minutes later, he gets the notification that Grimes has delegated it out. 

At least _someone's_ getting things done around here. 

"Man," Connor grumbles, pulling a guilty face. "I'm really wishing Walsh had never become Governor."

"I know," Paul nods, though that had been five years before he'd been born. Governor Shane Walsh had done more than anyone to really start expanding the colony. His administration had overseen the construction of the Agriculturalist outpost, and the overturning of the Reproductive Limit Codes. 

His mother had told him, years ago, that the colony'd had its first struggles, first catastrophe, and first recovery all within the first decade of operation. It had taken another ten years for it's first taste of real optimism. Food production had gone up, water reclamation had been perfected. The first generation of children had been born healthy and strong, and everyone had started believing, really and truly, that they could make it here. 

The population hadn't shot up overnight, but it had been more than it should've been. And nobody, Gregory included, had wanted to be the first one to start enforcing the RLCs again. 

"The way I see it," Gregory had started reasoning, right about the time he'd been provided with evidence that his stepson might not have just been going through a phase, "we're like Earth, but we're different. The light, the gravity, the gene pool, it's all changing us. Non-heterosexuality's rising dramatically among our offspring, and in a few years, we'll be looking at a decreased birth rate. Our kids comin' up strange might just be the thing that saves us."

Paul hadn't been so sure, and still isn't. The first time Gregory'd spouted off like that, he'd been too embarrassed to risk drawing any more attention to himself. By the time Gregory'd repeated it enough to start mistaking it for actual data, Paul had learned to ignore him. 

Either way, the numbers he's working with right now are proof to the contrary. They'd been pushing up against their life support limits for years, now, and their closed system is about to become, for the few weeks it'll take to reach Earth, even smaller. 

\--- 

_Monday, 04/22/2194, 22:40_

The housing for communications relay seven's rusted shut, thanks to a leaky pipe out behind the 'culturalists' bathhouse. In the end, he'd had to remove the whole damned thing, haul it back to the workyard, and get it set up in one of the chembath scrubbers because he's fucked if he's going to wrestle with it manually, his shoulder bein' what it is. Of course, the only one available had been the old one down at the end of the line. The sensors- not something they can build here- aren't even being made any more. 

Which means he's had to spend most of the afternoon watching a small vat of storage-stable hydrochloric acid do it's thing. It hadn't been until about seven that he'd been able to open the damn thing, clean out a _hell_ of a lot of scaling, and replace the faulty wires. By the time he'd gotten the whole thing re-installed and locked back into the system, it had been close to 22:00. 

He swings through the chow line- there's nothing but cold shit, this time of night, but it's not like heat's got some magical ability to make chowline taste like anything worthwhile- and heads back up to Alexandria. 

Eric and Aaron are up on the roof, their feet dangling over the edge a few feet from the ladder. They wave down at him, but they're sitting close together, look like they're comfortable and settled in, and not much like they're wanting company. 

At least inside, things are finally settling back down. Air's being pushed in again, and the interior rooms are once again filled. Hopefully they'll have a month or so before anything gets flagged. The notion of going through all this shit with Negan again is preemptively exhausting. Hell, even without that, the only thing he's got on his horizon is working himself to a routine death with the rest of the grunts. 

He's sore and he's tired, and really, all he wants to do is sleep. Blink out for a while, let some time slide by without him. It ain't coming easy, though he's more worn down than he should be, given how much sitting on his ass as he's been doing. 

There'd been a case worker, in school, back before Merle had gotten out of jail, who'd tried her damnedest to convince him that people could get used to horrible things quite easily, that accepting things as they were was a coping mechanism, but not the only one. Over the course of three Fridays, she'd pulled him out of class to talk to him, try to get him interested in school, in college, a career or something. She'd tried to get him to admit all sorts of shit, eventually telling him flat out that he didn't have to stay where he'd been. That there'd been options, like he didn't already know the kids in the system, or how they didn't seem to be doin' any better than he was. Like the farthest away he could get from Will Dixon was measured in too few miles to count for much of anything at all.

Things up here ain't as bad as they'd been back then, though. Shit happens, it don't _last_ as much as it used to. Sure, there's Negan and his fucks, but there are good people up here, enough that if he's honest about it, he's been thinking of them as _his_ people, for a while now. So he doesn't know why he's thinking about that old done shit right now. 

It's funny, though. At the time, she'd been talking like heading into Atlanta and going to college was some lofty goal that he could only _possibly_ manage if he really set his mind to it. And here he was, dropped so far out that he'd wound up 74 light years from _Earth_. 

Joke's on her. 

\---

 _Tuesday, 04/22/2194, 15:08_

Marlene's specialty is logistics, resource generation and deployment. She's the interface between Admin, the 'culturalists and the 1300 colonists who need to eat. She signs off on every step in the supply chain, from planting to rationing. She's also, when it comes down to it, an optimist. So it's depressing as hell when she, finally as exhausted and demoralized as the rest of them, says what they're all pretending not to think. 

"If it comes down to it, we might just have to draw straws."

A few people in the room- Paul included- nod back at her. He doesn't know if he's nodding just to show that he's heard, but he's worried he's doing it because he agrees. 

"We still have two weeks," Paul decides, mustering the most confident tone his dry throat will allow. "We've made good progress so far. We've got all the floor space we'll need to fit everyone. All we need is to figure out how to increase the capabilities of the life support system, and come up with a rationing plan."

"Isn't that Gregory's call?" Marlene smirks at Dale, who rolls his eyes.

"If that man ever took it upon himself to make a call on anything, _ever_ ," Connor grumbles, "we wouldn't _be_ in this mess."

Paul nods mildly, though he wants to shout his agreement out loud; he could've, even last week, but he outranks them by too much, now. 

If they don't have a solid plan in place- whatever it is, however good or bad it may be- by the time the Ambition reaches their next relay point, things will deteriorate too quickly for them to actually pull off whatever ingenious plan they _still_ have yet to come up with. 

\---

The project _has_ gained enough momentum, though, that Paul's able to back out and let Connor and Eugene take point on working out the math for the Ambition without his impedance. But after focusing on nothing but an escape plan for so long, switching gears to think about how to keep the colony _alive_ feels like more of a jump than it probably should. 

Besides. Last night, he'd realized that not only does his new system provide access to all current transmissions, but it has full, unfettered access to fifty years of archives as well. And not just of personnel files and school records, or order requisitions and system update logs, but internal communications and newsbursts from Earth.

At first, he'd only been searching out long-term historical data on membrane regeneration rates, but once he'd determined that the seams around the entrances were the only real point of concern- old, obvious news, that- he'd poured himself a drink and had started poking around more idly. 

He'd found his birth announcement, and his father's death certificate dated to three years later. His mother's is there too, next in the list of search results, but he scrolls down past it; having been fifteen at the time, he remembers it clearly enough. He'd poked around his school grades, realizing how easily he could change them, now that it doesn't matter. 

From a link to the announcement of Gregory Jefferson and Jane Rovia's wedding, he'd clicked around a while longer, eventually winding back up in the news archives. Gradually and without his even knowing it, his browsing had once again become research. 

As it turns out, this panicked, sick feeling he's been carrying in his stomach ever since his promotion is _maybe_ a little premature. 

The colony's lost contact with Earth before. There've been three other occasions when NATOPS or the UN had dialed back their support to the colony. Recessions, political conflicts, and a fuel crisis had threatened to upend any hopes of regular travel- once for a year and a half. 

And here they were, still standing. And once he's had a few hours of sleep, and the alcohol's worn off, he figures that the only reason that's true is that people like him had gotten off their sorry asses and did their jobs.


	5. Chapter 5

_Wednesday, 04/23/2194, 07:53_

"I'm just saying," Gregory raises his fork and his knife as he cuts his omelet. "Due to your promotion, you now qualify to run for Council the next time a spot opens up."

Paul bites the rim of his coffee cup to stop himself from smirking, and waits. Before Gregory's even finished chewing, he adds. "I mean, a project like this will be one hell of a feather in your cap. And you know the colony's never had anyone of your persuasion on the Council before."

"That's odd," Paul knows he's baiting him, but he's only halfway through his coffee, and hadn't wanted to meet for breakfast in the first place. "I wouldn't have thought being of the persuasion to ensure the colony's continued success would be all that rare."

"I mean _gay_ ," Gregory scowls at him, then rolls his eyes. "Especially if it'll help drive the whole idea of population decrease home. There're enough, what d'you call them, LGBTQA people on the colony now that it could very well constitute a significant voting block. Just think about it."

It was easier, he thinks, when Gregory'd been pressing on Mom to have another kid just to keep the family line going. Once she'd died, that ship had sailed, and Gregory'd had to make do with what he'd legally adopted. He hadn't so much turned on a dime, as far as acceptance goes, but he'd found a political angle to justify it. 

"Sure thing." 

"And on that note," Gregory says. "The one thing I would advise, besides maybe getting a haircut, is to find yourself a good, _stable_ partner. You wouldn't want everyone running around thinking you're one of those flaky types always making a scene down on the strip." Gregory snorts. "Someone upright. Responsible."

"No club kids, no prostitutes." He glances up at the clock, wills the bullshit to just wash over him and recede. It's not even _eight_ yet. "Noted and filed. Now. Did you want to hear the progress report?"

Gregory shoots him a dark look, and straightens in his seat. 

"Of course. That's why we're _eating together_ , isn't it?" 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 04/23/2194, 11:48_

Despite the Gregory-induced headache- breakfast had gone on for an hour too long- today seems easier than yesterday. The Engineering team check-in is brief, and now that they've had some time to dig into the schematics for the new blowers reportedly coming up on the Ambition, Eugene thinks that opening up new Ag fields is a real possibility. 

"And it might be enough of an improvement on our current state of affairs, regarding the repeated and unsanctioned theft of air by the Techniki," he says, his words blunt and monotone, "that they'll be motivated by that possible outcome enough to work with a modicum of effort that I have never before witnessed from them."

It's not until lunch that Paul really has anything to feel disappointed about. They're all minor, but in relatively quick succession. First, they're out of apples, probably for another two or three weeks. Five minutes later, as he's poring over the morning's maintenance request logs, he realizes he's run his tablet battery down completely. He does catch sight of Heath, coming in between AdSec shifts, but as Paul starts meandering his way over- casually, because, let's face it, it's not like he's actually going to get the nerve up to say more than _hey_ anyhow- Deanna steps into his path. 

She's got Spencer in tow, looking as irritable as ever, and his mien is not improved when she invites Paul over to dinner. By the time Paul's accepted and extricated himself from the rapidly-growing-uncomfortable conversation, Heath is nowhere to be found. 

His highest priority order- apart from five messages and a meeting request from Gregory- is a new request for someone to check in with Hershel about the irrigation systems. It doesn't require a PM's attention, but it'll provide a convenient excuse to make contact. Over the next few months, he figures, he and Hershel are going to be seeing quite a lot of one another.

After swinging by his quarters to put his tablet on the charger and accept the job in the system, he changes into slightly dirtier clothes. It's not like he could blend in if he tried, out there; he'd need coveralls and a three layers of grime ground into him- it's a matter of practicality. He's going to have to take a load of laundry down to the cleaners anyway in the next day or so, there's no reason to add to the pile. 

\--- 

Hershel, when Paul finds him, seems less interested in discussing the irrigation system than in glaring suspiciously at his daughter Maggie, who's down at the fence separating the fields and the commons. After a few minutes, Paul catches on that it's got something to do with the black-haired Techniki she seems to be flirting with. 

His theory's proved correct after only a few minutes when Beth stops by en route to the hydroponics building. "Dad," she chides him, once she's figured out what he's looking at, "it's _fine_ , they're just talking about rolling out the field lights for sundown."

"I don't like her talking to those guys."

He's just grumbling for the sake of grumbling, and Paul knows it. Maggie's decent enough in the fields, and she's got the greenhouses running like a dream; they've been consistently exceeding yield expectations for the past four years, now. More importantly, though, Maggie's organized, driven, and friendly. She gets along with everyone- 'culturalists, Admin, Techniki and the rest- regardless of job class, and in an alternate universe, she's probably leading the whole colony. 

Too bad it's just not _this_ one.

"Glenn's not one of _those guys_ ," Beth rolls her eyes. "I mean, yeah, he's Techniki, but. He's smart, doesn't get into shit like some of the others." The rest of it sounds like it's coming by rote. "And it's going on for weeks, she's almost twenty six and doesn't need your permission, so get over it."

Hershel laughs, shaking his head, but mock grumbles, "I should've sent you both back to Earth." 

"Yeah, but who _knows_ what the two of us would be getting up to down there." Beth pulls a mock-horrified face, and turns to Paul, brushing dirt off his shoulder, sarcastically fastidious. "Hey, I saw about your promotion in the feeds. What're you doing out here still walking amongst the plebes? Thought you'd be all, y'know. Hiding in your office with your screens and clean floors, jumping whenever the Chamber doors open."

"If I'm in my office-" there's no point in correcting her; people who get to clock _out_ are the only ones who get assigned cubes- "Gregory knows where to find me. You know how it is." Though Hershel's the only one who probably does. He's been here since the very beginning. Could've had Gregory's position, if he'd wanted it, but, as the story goes, he'd told the Council to fuck off after his wife died, sayin' that he'd wanted to go to do something useful with his remaining years instead. 

Even if his notion of _useful_ , right now, seems to be more about glaring at his daughters than it is about actually explaining what's going on with the irrigation system. He's still got Gregory beat by spades.

\--- 

_Wednesday, 04/23/2194, 18:22_

He'd figured it was coming, but like most things these days, Paul's optimism's bending him over the table dry. Talking to Hershel had, once they'd gotten into it, put a lot of things into perspective, and had come out of the meeting twice as concerned about the Ag Department's long term sustainability as he'd been at the outset. 

When he'd accepted Deanna's invitation to dinner, he'd assumed it would be the usual politicking, if at a slightly higher level than he's been accustomed to. He's not an idiot, though. His promotion and clearance upgrade means that a Council nomination is a real possibility, next time a spot opens up, and he predicts, quite accurately, that whatever was happening on the surface, there'd be a lot of vying for position running underneath. 

He _hadn't_ predicted, however, that the two of them would be so brazen to invite him to join a coup. 

\--- 

"He's a good man," Deanna says of Gregory, though she'd say that of anyone. "And I don't know that he's not up to the challenges, but he's _First Family_. They might've had the most democratic of intentions when they'd arrived here, but they don't know what it is to be born and _raised_ here. They've always had a split focus, one eye here, the other 74 light years away. That's why they need people like you and Spencer."

"They were settlers, so they settled," Spencer cuts in, leaning over the table as if he's letting him in on a secret, rather than repeating what half the colony's been saying for decades. "They did great work getting the ball rolling, but it's gotten away from them."

Paul nods politely and sips his wine, bolstered, somewhat, by the flash of irritation crossing Deanna's face. The food's good, at least. The steak's catered, private-stock and grilled for show, and probably costs more than he makes in a month.

"The situation on Earth is going to come to a head, one way or the other," she says, treading the very fine line of referencing the exact situation at hand for Paul's benefit, while remaining vague enough for Spencer's level 4 clearance. "Things will get messy even without a drastic change in approach. But the tensions we're already facing- the constant bickering over resources, the Techniki diverting resources and security overreacting and keeping the whole cycle going? It's all going to come to a boiling point, and I don't think the colony can take it."

He can't help but notice the tensions she's omitting- Admin's long-held certainty that they should be the ones in charge, or that their means of governing, such as they are, could probably stand to be reconsidered entirely. And while he can't expect her to believe, much less come out and say, that addressing the organizational structure- which has grown into something more resembling a caste system than anything else- needs to change, it would've been heartening to hear some vague overtures to that effect. 

As it is, she's just lining up for a power grab. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. But if she's not saying it, he's not foolish enough to bring it up either. If a shift in power is coming- and frankly it's inevitable- he'll have an easier time getting others on board with his teams' plans if he's not dragged out in Gregory's wake. 

"Everything you're saying," he's careful to specify that, being professional enough not to admit to having a basic ability to read between the lines, "I agree."

"I'm glad to hear it. I've been following your career with some interest. And it'll be you and Spencer, your generation, who's going to be taking charge." She tops off all of their glasses before leaning back in her chair and regarding him. "The only question is, how soon shall we start?"

Something in his expression gives him pause. "What do you mean?" A power grab down the line, as the situation demands it, is one thing. Bringing the question of time into it just feels like flat-out conspiracy. 

"There are a few of us in the Council who are considering a recommendation to have Gregory step down." She sips her wine calmly, though she might as well be saying _and we're going to have Spencer take his place_. 

And Spencer nods confidently, as if he's already accepted the nomination. "It's going to happen eventually, and you know it," he tells him. "You're going to have to decide which side of history you're on." 

Deanna, for her part at least, has the good grace to look chagrined. But there's no point getting riled up by Spencer's intensity or his arrogance; they're known quantities. Might as well be background noise, like a fan kicking in when the sensors tell it to. 

The thing is, Spencer's an idiot in the classical sense. He has no understanding of politics. He's well liked by many who don't know him well, though by that standard, so is Gregory. And that, right there, is the biggest stumbling block to any possibility of a Monroe political dynasty: Gregory, First Family, has the advantage of being familiar and established. His being demoted will- _would_ \- put people on edge, just as much as Spencer's stepping in would. 

It occurs to Paul that he should talk to Gregory, and also that he absolutely _shouldn't_. They've got complete freedom of speech here, it's written into the Charter and is part of the reason anyone had even come so far out into the universe in the first place. But it's the freedom of speech applied by people born in the early days of the century, a time when, as the history books tell it, those in power had first come up against the startling reality that after centuries spent shutting everyone else out, the things they'd started hearing hadn't been anything they'd been prepared to listen to. 

And while freedom of speech had never guaranteed the freedom to be heard, it's definitely guaranteed the freedom to be watched. There wouldn't be over five hundred known cameras benevolently monitoring the colony, were that not the case. 

Gregory's a fool, but he's smart enough to react. Sure, he'd take care of it behind closed doors, and appropriate reasons will, in due course, be found to quietly legitimize the Monroes' brig sentences. But doing that will make it look like he's hiding something, which will lend legitimacy to their claims in the long run. And as soon as tensions boil over- and they will, Paul _knows_ that, now, in a way that he hadn't before sitting down to dinner- whatever opposition the Monroes represent will have a focal point for their cause, if not a couple of martyrs, conveniently jailed nearby. 

Then again, given the situation on Earth, maybe everything will fall apart so quickly and so catastrophically that there'll be no time at all for any of that. 

"I need to think about it," he says, figuring that it's a predictable enough outcome, this early in the conversation, for the two of them to handle. "I mean, you've made some very good points, but I'm still trying to-" _stall_ , really- "figure out the lay of the land, and this is a delicate matter."

"It is indeed," Deanna says, smiling, a little apologetically. She may be looking to wedge her son into a position he's really got no ability to handle, but that's probably true of all Admin parents- Gregory, for all his foibles, had been no different. And Deanna's canny enough to know exactly what spot she's putting him in, here, by even broaching the subject. 

Promising her that he'll keep his mouth shut might be a lie anyway, but thankfully, it would also confirm that he thinks what they're doing is wrong, tantamount to treason and needing to remain hidden. In short, it would be rude. 

So he doesn't. 

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 06:05_

It's Friday, which means there are another 700 credits in Daryl's account, but apart from that, it's shaping up to be any other day. All that's different are the priority flags and the bruising that's set up 'round stitches on Rick's forehead as he stands up front to start sorting today's roster. 

Carl skulks in late and sits down next to him, looking irritable- probably on account of having to report in instead of sleeping in on a school release day, and if he notices the cross look Rick shoots him, he doesn't react. 

Abe's crew already has the temporary membranes set up to seal off the upgrade on airlock two, Rick's telling them all. Some idiot in Admin's upgraded the priority on the suit respirator inventory ticket; apparently they've yet to realize that the Techniki, bein' the only people who ever get off their asses and go anywhere that requires them, are already well aware of how fuckin' useful not suffocating on the job is. 

Daryl's barely listening, as the assignments are doled out. Which proves to be a mistake, because he winds up looking up at the wrong point and winds up assigned on the irrigation line clearing, along with a handful of OT's. 

"Soon as you get cleared for duty," Rick tells him, smirking like he knows how irritating he's being, "you can go out and join them over in Ag."

 

Still, it beats Carl's lot. Instead of enjoying a day off like most of the other kids, he's getting assigned to the cleaning queue. Not only, Rick informs them gleefully, because of Carl starting shit with the Saviors last week, but because apparently the perimeter pathway is getting a little dusty. 

"I've got homework," Carl grumbles to Michonne, once everyone's getting to their feet, afterward.

"Well, the sooner you clear the flag, the sooner you can get to it," she shrugs, taking a few steps before relenting. "You get it all taken care of by five, though, you can pick where we're eating tonight."

Daryl's stepping past the both of them when Carl swats his arm. 

"Yeah?"

"Pizza tonight, you in?"

"The hell're you asking me for?" he shoots back, regretting it the moment the disappointment registers on Carl's face. Michonne is already there, though, looking sympathetic

"'Cause you're the only other person on the planet who thinks olives and rehydrated pineapple is actually edible," she smirks, glancing from him to Carl and back again, in a way that's clearly supposed to mean something. Like she's been stuck trying to mend some fences between father and son and needs some kind of backup.

"Whatever." Daryl shrugs. It ain't like it's his favorite, but Carl will inhale most of the damn thing anyway. For Carl's benefit, and maybe Enid's too, seein' as how she seems to be hanging out waiting for him, he adds, "Ain't got nothin' on _possum_ , but it'll do."

It has the desired effect; Enid's eyes go wide and Carl's finally looking like he's done chewing on tinfoil as the two of them wander off, making faces at each other that honestly ain't worth tryin' to figure out. 

\--- 

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 06:05_

The comms alert wakes him up half an hour before his alarm's set to go off, so Paul's groggy when he rolls over, reaches across his empty bed, and swipes opens the feed. At first, all his still-sleeping brain can parse out is that Gregory looks strange without a jacket. 

"There's been an emergency," he explains. "You are to report immediately to the Council Chambers  
and speak to nobody on the way."

Ten minutes later, Paul's pulling his hair back out of his face- it's finally long enough that he can get most of it- as he shoulders the doors open. Deanna, Lin, Singh, Hodges, Coates are already here; they're just waiting on Gregory. 

Fucking typical. Or it would be, if Paul had any honest basis for comparison. The Council's always had their collective game face on, every other time he's reported to them. Right now they're so confused that they're forgetting to put on any haughty airs for his interloping benefit. 

Only CIO Yang looks anything besides irritated at this point. Though usually prepared for the cameras at all times, without a hair out of place, this morning she looks like she's about to be sick all over the spotless carpeting. It's that, more than anything, that finally shakes the last cobwebs loose. 

She's the Chief Information Officer, and this early in the morning, the only people awake to feed her anything worth worrying about are the departmental dispatchers. And they wouldn't risk waking her for a run-of-the-mill altercation or system alert. Before he can even ask anyone about it, Gregory comes storming in, pale as a ghost and sweating. His eyes aren't landing on anything or anyone in particular, and Paul can see him swallowing from across the room. 

With a glance darting in Singh's direction, and then up to the clock, he clears his throat. 

"Thirty seven minutes ago, we were hailed by the crew of the SS Ambition. It was an all-points SOS, and when dispatch backtracked their coordinates, they found it originated from 37 lightyears out, just past the secondary relay beacon. Dispatch made contact, and are still trying to clear out the noise, but it's not looking good. Thirty five minutes ago, the Ambition dropped out of contact completely. "

Lin is the first to speak. "Could they have made it out of range of the relay in that amount of time?"

"Yes," Gregory nods, then shakes his head. "The telemetry's coming in, however, and the picture it's painting isn't pretty." He snorts, and shakes his head again, before looking up. "Actually, was beautiful. Objectively. The array of heat and light and reflection was something like the birth of a star."

Deanna's staring at him with wide open eyes, but her voice is an angry monotone. "It _exploded_?"

"Dispatch has scrubbed enough of the message to record an impact and a rapid depressurization, but they were cut off, and there's been no word since. We are, of course, still attempting to hail them, but... it's gone."

Paul surveys the rest of the room, hoping to glean some semblance of an idea about how he's supposed to react, but there are too many to choose from. None of them good. 

"What do we do now?" His voice is smaller than he'd like it to be when he asks, and by the time Gregory's looking at him, he's wishing it had been even smaller.


	6. Chapter 6

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 07:58_

In two minutes, the team will assemble, business as usual, and he'll be there to meet them with terrible news. There's no good way to say it, to tell them that all of the work they've been doing has just been rendered moot. 

Their focus has not changed, it's just been split down the middle. 

They still need to figure out how they're going to enable the colony to end its dependency on resupplies, including the one that they'd all been budgeting on. And at the same time, they're going to have to make preparations to try to get as many people back to Earth as they can. 

Someone needs to go down and muster support to get the resupplies up and running. Failing that, the odds are good that many people, staring down the gun of being cut off from Earth entirely- will want to return. 

All they've got left by way of an exit is the Sagan RV, a small- no, _tiny_ \- short-range exploratory vessel, which hasn't launched in the three years since the satellites went up. While they've got enough fuel cells to make it back to Earth, there's no reasonable assumption that they will be restocked for a return journey; it's always been too small, quite frankly, to be considered worth it. 

He's going to have to tell them- not that they don't all already know- that the Sagan only holds a dozen people, tops, and _that's_ only if Connor, who's about to be given the lead on the project, can even figure out how to get it refitted for such a long 

He's _trying_ to focus, to convince himself that the charge for the remaining team had been given- to ensure the colony's sustainability- hasn't changed. Only everything has.

One minute, now- he can already hear their footsteps coming down the corridor. 

\--- 

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 08:37_

He's going numb, they all are, and despite the way Marlene's excused herself and Eugene's shut down completely, he's hoping the daze they've all settled into is a good thing. Connor's already compartmentalizing; muttering to himself as he goes through the Dockside roster, coming up with a list of candidates they'll need to bring in on the project. 

As of this morning, it's probably he, more than anyone, who's carrying most of the weight, as far as the team's immediate objectives go. But he's clutching at straws. With the loss of the Ambition, they've had to scrap all of their plans and start over, and what they've got to work with is limited. The only vehicle they've got that's capable of breaking orbit is the Sagan RV, but it's built for short-range jumps. Right now they don't even know if a one-way back to Earth is even possible, much less a round trip. 

Paul, for the time being, isn't good for much more than waiting. Hopefully Connor will have his specialists selected, and hopefully they'll be able to pull a solution out of thin air, and hopefully-

-when the door opens, Paul glances up, expecting to see Marlene returning, eyes red but ready to try. Instead, it's Heath, AdSec badge glinting dully on his uniformed chest, dreadlocks tucked under his helmet. And apparently he's heard the news, because he's not smiling, not even a little. 

"Mr. Rovia, could you come out here please?"

Or maybe not. He's got his bodycam on, and, SOP, it's already recording. Oh _hell_. Now is _not_ the time for getting caught up over some minute administrative infraction; the list he'd been trying to memorize, ever since his promotion, he doesn't have down yet. And everything he'd told the team, they'd genuinely needed to know. But the odds that he'd slipped up, revealed too much outside of his team's clearance, are looking increasingly good. 

"Sure thing," he says, setting his tablet down and smiling reassuringly to a room full of people who don't notice. "Uh, thanks," he adds, once the door's closed, but there's another AdSec standing across the hall, and the flash of humor in Heath's eyes is gone the next instant. 

Taking a breath, Heath says, "We regret to inform you that, fifteen minutes ago, your stepfather's body was found in his quarters. He appears to have taken his own life."

It's fucked up, but Paul's first instinct is to smile. It's not until Heath doesn't smile back that it starts to sink in; he's not joking. 

He's not sure how many seconds pass before it occurs to him to speak. 

"What happened?"

"AdSec is on site and assessing the scene. We have video footage of Gregory letting himself into the armory a little less than two hours ago. No alerts were raised on account of his clearance, but a blaster was found in his hand." Heath pauses a moment, probably trying to give him a moment to take it all in, but it's a lost cause anyway. "I'm sorry to put you on the spot, but did you notice anything unusual at this morning's briefing? We have confirmation that it took place three hours ahead of schedule this morning."

He's about to open his mouth when he realizes, stupidly, that he doesn't know what he's about to say- or, more to the point, whether he's _allowed_ to. 

"Um. I'm sorry, but." He cringes- he probably sounds like a suspect, here- "I don't mean to-"

-to what? Shut him down? Pull rank?

"Are you asking for my security clearance?"

Stupidly relieved, Paul nods. 

"Six internal, four external."

Enough to investigate murders, not enough to know, yet, about the Ambition's explosion. "There was an emergency, early this morning." A few weeks ago, he would've been able to tell him everything he knew. And probably would have, just to impress him. Though at that point, without his level five clearance, he wouldn't have had anything worth hearing. "I'm sorry that I can't tell you anything more than that, but I don't know... Um. If you talk to Yang she should be able to tell you more."

"Is it relevant, do you think?"

"I don't-" he's not certain. Only it is. And he feels guilty, because Heath's not going to enjoy hearing it any more than Yang's going to enjoy telling it. "Yeah. I think so."

Heath nods, a little of his mask slipping, and gives him a sympathetic look. "I know this is tough, and I'm guessing you were already having a bad morning. Are you going to be okay?"

He nods back, because to do otherwise, especially on camera, would be admitting things he _can't_ admit. 

"Ah. Yeah," he says, straightening up just a bit in hopes it'll prevent Heath from feeding him the rote reminders that counselors are available around the clock over in SciMed. But he's not sure what he's supposed to do. When mom had died, Gregory'd gotten the notification, he'd been the one to handle everything. "Um. Can I... am I supposed to come look at the body? Or something?"

"We've finished recording the scene and are preparing to move him to SciMed. You're free to choose, but..." Heath approximates a smile. "You want some advice?"

"Please."

"Give it- give _yourself_ an hour, first. They'll need to get him ready for viewing, and if you go over there now, all you'll be doing is waiting in a room full of people wanting to talk to you every five minutes."

\--- 

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 09:50_

Heath had turned his bodycam off and told him he'd be around, if he needed to talk, and then he and the other AdSec had left. After that, most of the morning's been a blur. 

Paul thinks he might've just _stood_ there, for a few minutes, before he'd managed to pull his brain cells together enough to think that maybe he should go back inside. 

He remembers everyone looking at him expectantly the moment he'd opened the door. He thinks he'd blurted out, "Gregory's dead," but after that, he's not so sure. Everyone had been coming at him, then, or maybe it had just felt like it. He's not even sure if he'd mustered up his excuses, been dismissed, or merely walked off without a word, but there'd been a while, there, where he'd just wandered the halls, not knowing where to go. 

He'd gravitated towards Gregory's quarters, and then had veered off towards his own. From the intersection to his corridor, though, he'd caught sight of Deanna and Hodges waiting outside his door, probably wanting to discuss the announcement, so he'd continued on. 

He'd thought, then, that getting outside would do him some good. But the day was getting started, there'd been people everywhere. It had quickly become an exercise in moving without being seen, because he'd already known what the conversations were going to be. He just hadn't known how to _have_ them, yet. 

Head down, he'd been halfway to the square when he'd made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder, only to catch sight of the SciMed vehicle pulling up to the Council Hall. No flashing lights, no rush, but everyone in the square outside had been staring after it. 

They'd be looking at him like that, soon, once word got out. 

So he'd doubled back, skirting the edges of the enclave, and come out here to the membrane instead. 

And now he sits on the ground, his back against pressure valve input number six, and stares down the long empty path in front of him. 

The walkway had once been named for Philip Blake, the colony's founding governor, who'd been killed in the first revolt. Somewhere along the line, in the intervening years, it had just become known as the perimeter path, but there's a plaque about it somewhere, probably down closer to the park. 

Maybe, he thinks, the tradition of naming shit after dead politicians will come back, and they'll name it after Gregory. 

He fucking hopes not. 

Outside the membrane, everything looks as hazy and still as it almost always does; the sands had shifted, but not noticeably so, except for where it's piling up against the pressure valve output. Maybe he should flag it now, before the panic sets in. 

Before people realize that Gregory's dead, or that the SS Ambition isn't going to make it's ETA. Before people realize that they're on their own, out here. 

He needs to just go in and sign the paperwork. Say goodbye. And when he gets back to his quarters, he'll put the work request in. 

It takes him an hour to push himself back up to his feet. He keeps his head down as he walks to the hospital, and nobody hails him, nobody calls out, and he tells himself that's the way he wants it. 

\--- 

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 10:23_

"Okay, now raise your right arm."

He does so, rolling his eyes. Why she's hung up on his side, when it's his shoulder that's all beat to hell, he doesn't bother asking. "Ain't gotten any worse in the past five minutes." 

Denise rolls her eyes right back at him, and gestures at him to lower it. "Well, with that hit to the head that you conveniently forgot to report- yeah, Tara told me last night, I would've pulled you in a lot sooner if I wasn't always sleeping by the time she comes over- I had to be sure you didn't jackass yourself into injuring anything else all."

Daryl snorts. "Day's still young."

"Yeah, well. No offense, but how about you make it a full 24 without winding back up in here." For a minute, she's just tapping away at her tablet. "And if you can't swing that," she wrinkles her nose, "at least try to take a shower or something."

He snorts at that, watching as she turns away to key in whatever password opens up the meds cabinet, listens to the dosage dispenser kicking in. When she turns back, she's got two pills in a plastic cup, which she holds out to him. 

"Your scans are fine, including the head. I know you've had it under control all week, but you're going to be sore once you get the arm up and moving. This'll help get you over the worst of it. You sure you don't want to go the PT route instead? It'll buy you a week and it's not like you're running low on PTO. Might help prevent a stupid re-injury."

It's just bruises. He shakes his head. "Not gonna be doin' nothing besides twisting dials and sittin' around with my thumb up my ass all day anyway."

"All right, stupid wins out," she says, swiping across the screen. "You're good to go. Just try and take it easy and, you know. Don't pick fights with jackbooted assholes."

"Ain't makin' no promises." Dry swallowing the meds- no point in unsealing another water bottle- he shrugs off the glare she shoots him. Two minutes later, he's on his way. 

\--- 

On his way out, he sees that the lobby's gotten a lot more packed than it had been when he'd arrived. It's mostly AdSec, lounging around, talking quietly and evidently bored out of their minds. They don't pay him any mind, but they do go quiet, suddenly, when a door opens down the hall and a man- kind of on the short side and definitely Admin, despite his almost long hair- strides out angrily. 

He's staring dead ahead, paying no attention to any of the guards, but he glances up at Daryl on his way past, and his eyes sharpen, like he's trying to figure out if he recognizes him or not. 

No reason why he would, though. Daryl don't know him from Adam. But he quickens his steps to move past him, just in case. He's weirdly relieved to get outside, even though out front, there's a woman- CIO Yang- holding court in front of some cameras. 

Whatever'd been going on in there, it'll make the feeds by tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, at least I finally got them in the same room for three seconds!


	7. Chapter 7

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 18:17_

When the sun's down, and the neon lights are bouncing off the membrane overhead, it's the brightest thing on the colony. The rest of the time, the strip just looks like someone took a set from a western movie and scattered food court benches all over the street. At over a hundred meters long, it's bookended by the casino and the nightclub on one end, and the vid shop on the other; in between are the usual convenience stores, food counters, public address feedscreens, and liquor agents' stalls. 

When 17:00 rolls around crowds start pouring in from all the enclaves- even the Admin- and lines start haphazardly zig-sagging all over the damned place. People start rushing in to claim tables, shouting over the noise to their friends. 

Right now, it still feels like everyone's cut out early for happy hour, what with the sun never setting 'round here. It's only seven or so, but the club's already going strong, judging by the noise- the same tired done shit it's always blasting- when he passes by. And in the alley next to the casino, the bookie's window is open for business. It'll get shut down the next time the Council decides to get irritated about unsanctioned gambling or any of the other black-market shit that goes on back there. 

He recognizes a few faces, though not as many as he used to, back when he and Merle had used to waste a stupid amount of time and money there. Ed's back there, stoned enough on something that he waves at Daryl like they're friends or something. 

Like Daryl hadn't beat the shit out of him right there, in that alley, the night Carol'd disappeared. 

The brig stint had been worth it, even if it had put him one demerit away from being sent back to Earth, as if that had actually seemed like any sort of punishment at the time. But if he hadn't gotten sent to the brig, he wouldn't have wound up in a cell with Michonne, and a whole lot of other things wouldn't have happened, all leading up to this, right now. Passing by the alley to get in line to buy weak-as-fuck goody-two shoes Ag Department beer. He'll eat some shitty pizza with Rick, Michonne and everyone, he'll crash out by 19:00, and yeah. It's an improvement. 

The three slumming Admin squints ahead of him in line at the liquor agent's are already too drunk to stand, and the AdSec and Saviors in line behind him are off duty, shouting their amusement more than anything, at least for now. Another hour or so, and the kids with parents to mind 'em will have all been sent home, and it'll start getting hairy. For now, though, the strip just feels like a city, like someplace where people are _supposed_ to be, and not a membrane-domed settlement just eking by on the edges of the known universe. 

He spots his people, already crammed into one of the long tables in front of the pizza kitchen. By the time Daryl's paid for the growler deposit and the beer that's inside it and made his way back through the crowd- the line at the noodle shop is long tonight, getting in the way of everything- their food's already on its way. The menu over the service window is as dodgy looking as it's ever been; it's probably been ten years since they'd even bothered turning on the lights next to the non-vegetarian options. 

Setting the beer down in the middle of the table- his usual contribution to their Friday night proceedings, wherever they're eating- he grabs the spot next to Michonne. There's a moment where they're both shifting awkwardly for foot space, and it's not improved by Judith squirming on her lap, or the Friday night crowds starting to press in on them from all sides. 

"You feeling better?" She asks, twisting her neck in an attempt to free her hair from Judith's tugging. 

He shrugs. "Got paid, took a fifteen-credit shower, 'bout to have some terminally shitty beer. Life's good."

"Nice," Rick smiles. "You leave any hot water for the rest of us?"

"Fuck nah. What'd I miss?" Enid and Carl already have their drinks; he sets to filling the three remaining tumblers with beer. 

"Just getting caught up on she most recent chapter of Tyler the Terrible," Michonne says, finally grabbing her dreads out of Judith's grip. Across from him, Carl's leaning over the table, half shouting to Rick in an effort to be heard above the noise of the crowd, bitching about some kid from school.

"...and Tyler was all 'no, I've got the files queued up,' but then he deleted the whole presentation and we had to start over again."

Enid rolls her eyes in solidarity, but they're drawn away suddenly, out past Daryl's shoulder, alert. Turning, he follows her gaze to see assholes scuffling over at the liquor agents. It's none of theirs, though. Just the Savior assholes from before. 

Rick, standing up to divest Michonne of the tantrum that's Judith, now that Daryl's glancing at her- is gearing up for, catches sight of it too, but continues the conversation with the kids. "So you guys are getting together again Monday to finish up?"

"Or finish _him_ ," Enid grumbles around the straw of her soda. It's weird, how kids'll drink that shit up here. Daryl'd tried it a few times; tastes even shittier than the ethanol beer. One shipment of Pepsi or Coke- never mind actual _real_ beer- would probably send the whole damn colony into a riot. 

Carl's smiling at her like an idiot. "Ass first through the airlock?"

Enid grins evilly. "Exactly."

"Well, don't get caught," Rick shrugs, settled back into his seat and sipping his beer toasting a thanks at Daryl. "And make sure you've got the drives out of his pocket first."

Glenn stops by a few minutes after Daryl's dug into his food; he's got Maggie from Ag with him, explaining that they're heading over to check out some vids, but they hang out long enough for Maggie and Rick to start talking about putting a ticket through on the hydroponics line. 

Right about the time Michonne starts reminding them that really, they're all off the clock, that it can wait, Rick and Enid freeze in their seats. Carl's halfway out of his a second later. The scuffling across the way's ratcheting up into an all-out fist-fight. 

Michonne, who'd been one hell of a brawler, back in the days before she and Rick had hooked up- hence her stint in the brig, back in the day- makes the clearest effort to ignore it. 

"So, has anyone asked you out to the Half-Centennial yet?" she asks Enid, before cutting a look at Carl that's probably meant to rein in his attention. "Everyone's going to be there."

The guys are already being pulled apart, so Daryl turns back to catch Car's mortified look, and Enid blushing furiously next to him. Rick starts laughing at the silence that's fallen over their table, and just as Daryl's starting to wonder if he's supposed to be laughing, or, like backing the kids up or something, or just ignoring the whole stupid thing completely, Carl rolls his eyes, squares his shoulders, and turns to Edith. 

"Hey Enid. Wanna go to the party? I hear it's going to be super awesome and totally _chaperoned_."

Whatever Rick sputters out next is completely lost under the rapidly building racket behind him. Someone's shouting, and then someone else is shouting back, but just before their voices are buried in the surge, Daryl hears it. 

Governor Gregory Jefferson is dead.

\--- 

_Friday, 04/25/2194, 19:03_

Gregory had loved scotch to the point of spending a large percentage of his personal requisition on it, but Paul's never developed the taste. 

Tonight, ten hours into his grievance leave, seems an appropriate time lower the blackout shades over the windows and take a stab at it. 

If he plays his cards right, he'll be too drunk to think about Gregory, and how he'd looked laid out on the silver metal slab, the fried veins at his temple courtesy of the blaster charge. He'll be too drunk to think about the Ambition, the people dying in space that he's never met and never will, or how much hope they'd all been hanging on them. 

He won't think about how fucking isolated the whole damn planet is- he's _really_ not in the mood. 

But that's all that's been on offer, today. Hell, he can't even mention it to anyone below level five clearance until Yang's had a chance to manage the message. She'd promised him, when she'd caught up with him on the way back from SciMed, that she'd keep it respectful, but that it would have to be vague to forestall any questions. Announcing it as a suicide would only lead to one logical question. 

_Why did he do it?_

_The Council has no comment._

He'd been in Gregory's quarters earlier, having entered them despite Deanna's suggestion that he give it some time, that everything would still be there in a few days. He'd gone in with the intention of ripping the bandage off quickly, and he'd wound up standing in the middle of the room just staring at the floor, probably for a long time. 

There'd been no mess; if he hadn't read the report, he wouldn't even have known that Gregory'd died in the chair next to his bed. 

There'd been no note; he'd told himself to be glad of it. 

There'd been nothing he'd wanted there. Nothing he gave a damn about anyway. Framed certificates on the walls. A photo of Mom that Paul's already got on his drive. A shelf full of books in the den that Gregory'd brought along for decoration at best, next to the heavily-stocked liquor cabinet in the corner. 

While Paul'd been standing there like an idiot, trying to kick into gear while at the same time, trying not to think at all, the alert from Yang had come through. Her office had spent most of the afternoon working on the obituary. He'd signed off on it without even opening the document, and sent it off, grabbing a bottle at random and heading for the door. 

\--- 

He pours himself another drink before getting the nerve to look over at the clock. It's time for the evening newsfeed. Slamming his drink back, he coughs; the adrenaline boost it gives him is nearly enough to bolster himself into turning the screen on. 

He doesn't, though. He blinks and stands, wavering tiredly, in the middle of the room, and he tries to listen. 

Right about now, the story's being released out to the colony at large. It's the weekend, so most people won't be paying attention or prepared for it. But there are feedscreens everywhere, and it's early enough yet that most people will still be sober enough to notice. 

And the ones that aren't, they'll be drunk enough to repeat it. 

But there's no flash of lightning, no colony-wide shudder to indicate that everyone suddenly knows that Governor Gregory Jefferson has passed. And Paul's not sure how to feel about that- whether it warrants that kind of reaction or not. 

He's drunk, he realizes. Drunk and, finally and completely, without any family left, on this planet or any other. 

Whatever. He's hardly the first, up here. 

There's a message alert on his comms unit, the blinking blue only noticeable because the shades are pulled down over the windows enough. He'd turned the chime off several hours ago, needing silence; now, he's not so sure. 

Picking up the receiver and screwing it into his ear, he plays the message, regretting it even before it even begins, because one, it's not going to be good news, and two, he's apparently reached the drunk and maudlin stage of his evening. 

"Hey, it's Heath. Just wanted to let you know, they ran the feed from SciMed and released the obituary. It's spreading like wildfire and from the looks of it on the monitors, the strip's starting to get rowdy. There's already reports that the bookies-" he can hear Heath's recorded intake of breath. "They're setting low odds on suicide, but it's getting shut down. Just, if you're out and about, be prepared for it. Uh. Call me whenever, if you want." Just as Paul starts to wonder exactly how much Heath might mean the offer- he'd said something to the same effect this morning, maybe he'll- 

The recording ends. 

And it's just Paul, alone in his room again, trying to convince himself that it's for the best, while outside, the city goes mad. 

_Let it_ , he decides, pouring himself another round with renewed determination. Tomorrow, he'll handle it. He'll pull his shit together- leave's obviously no good for him anyway- and he'll get back to work, figure out a way to get the team back on track. 

He just has three, maybe two hours, if he plays his cards right, to wallow. After that, he'll pass out. 

After that, he'll be better. He'll have to be. 

\---

 _Friday, 04/25/2194, 19:13_

People don't many any goddamn sense. 

"No, Carl, we're all heading back," Rick declares, as Judith's screaming cuts out over the thirty minute warning. 

"We'll drop you off at OT on the way," Michonne's telling Enid. "But if Sasha, Abe, or Tara aren't there, you should stay with us, all right?" 

Daryl can't hear Enid's reply as they fight their way through the crowd. Despite- or maybe because of- the curfew that's been called, there are as many people trying to make their way onto the strip as there are people trying to escape. After only a few seconds, theres' another dozen or so people falling into step behind Rick and Michonne, leaving him with Enid and Carl. 

Every feedscreen's got the same text stamped across the screen: 

_Governor Gregory Jefferson was found dead in his quarters this morning. SciMed has identified aneurysm as the cause of death. Curfew has been enacted, effective at 20:00. Official statement available on the feed menu home page. CIO Yang will address the Council Chambers in the morning. Further details to come._

For his part, Daryl's just tryin' to keep everyone in his field of view. It's bad enough, everyone acting like idiots on account of some governor that nobody'd given a damn about up until he'd croaked. But the gathering of AdSec and Saviors up at the intersection looks like it might erupt into a fight all on its own, regardless of the chaos they're probably here to stomp down. 

And shit, Daryl thinks, watching Negan's buddy Simon tabbing his finger into a neatly-pressed AdSec uniform as he snarls into the wearer's face, maybe this is the point where the Saviors break off entirely, splitting the colony's security forces right down the middle to become two rival camps. 

It's almost funny, how shit that seems inevitable for months can fucking startle the hell out of people when it finally happens. 

"So what's it mean?" Enid asks him, probably because he's the only one within earshot as they follow Rick and Michonne, and wind their way over to a stream of people who seem to be heading their same direction. "The Governor being dead?"

"Nothing, probably," Daryl grumbles, sidestepping around a wall of green coveralls as three 'culturalists push past them. One of them is talking about how it might mean they'll finally get someone capable in office. The other two- both of them older- are just laughing bitterly. 

"Aneurysm my ass," one rolls her eyes. "More like a blaster shot to the head." 

"You think it was murder?" 

By the time Daryl's managed to pick the words out, the workers have broken off, but he catches sight of them turning up into the alley by the casino. It's a few steps before the crowd pushes them forward enough to see, but as they pass, he glances down towards it. The betscreen's got it laid out all simple already. Two to one odds on murder, three to one on suicide. Five to one on natural causes. And despite the shoving and fighting out on the strip, judging by the line, they'll be doing good business until the curfew slams down. 

Beyond that, though, there ain't much point in tryin' to figure shit out anyway. Michonne's fallen back, and she and Enid are already breaking off, Rick's got one hand over the back of Judith's head as he hunches his way forward, so it's more or less on Daryl to keep an eye on Carl- fucking hell, he's lagging behind already- in case he decides to go do something stupid. 

There's a crack in the air behind them, though. The blasters always sound a little like bullwhips when they go off. Even if they're not meant to, they have the same effect, and a third of the gambling line starts herding itself away. Daryl ain't watching that anymore, but he doesn't have to. Carl's doing all the rubbernecking for him, and whatever he's seein' ain't good. 

That blast hadn't been for show. Someone'd been on the receiving end of it. 

"Carl, let's _go_ ," he grumbles out, grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving him forward, just as up ahead, Rick turns around to scan the crowd for him. At least the kid's got the sense to hurry to catch up with his dad. If he'd been any slower, he would've caught a hopefully-empty government beer growler to the head. 

After that, neither he nor Enid turn around at all. They just pick up the pace when they can, never quite getting clear of the other Alexandrians as the other groups break off to head to their respective quadrants. By the time they reach the Ag fields, the worst of it is behind them. 

But the crackling sounds of blasters, the heavy thud of boots connecting with ribcages? Those sounds carry.


	8. Chapter 8

_Saturday, 04/26/2194, 13:20_

He's got two days of grievance leave left, and the notion that Paul would've actually been able to take it had never been anything but laughable. He's in no shape to head in to the office, but there's still about a week's worth of updates for the Council that need to get finished, and frankly, he needs the distraction.

It all comes to a halt, though, when he gets a notification from Yang that they're about to move forward with the press conference in ten minutes. His presence is welcome but not required.

He gives it fifteen minutes before walking over. As he makes his way across the plaza towards the Public Hall, he notices that the Saturday Market, which should be in full swing, _isn't_. 

Curfew, as far as he's known, only ever lasts twelve hours at most. Aside from a few other late stragglers heading into the hall, and the usual AdSec presence at every corner of the plaza, nobody seems to be out and about. It's like the colony's lost 90 percent of its population overnight. All he can see are a few of Negan's Saviors, loping across the commons. 

He worries that everyone might already be assembled inside the hall, and it's with definite dread that he makes his way through the lobby and into the auditorium. 

A few heads turn- nobody he cares about, nobody who knows him well enough to say anything- as he takes a seat in one of the back rows. There are a lot of empty seats to choose from but the cameras are all live and feeding. Apparently, outside of a few dozen Admin, everyone else is content to watch the proceedings from the comfort of their own quarters. If they're watching at all. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 04/26/2194, 13:37_

"Yesterday's loss of Governor Jefferson was tragic and untimely," Yang is saying, when he walks in, "but more than that, it was unsettling, and I know that each and every one of you felt some effect of it's ramifications last night. We on the Council admit to feeling a definite level of shock, and so we have agreed that at this time, we are forestalling the selection of a new Governor."

A concerned murmur rises up in the absence of her voice; she waits it out. 

" _However_ , as the events of last night have shown us, it's imperative that we maintain as smooth a course as possible in the coming days. Towards that end, last night, the Council held an emergency meeting, and we have nominated and elected the individual who will fill Jefferson's too-suddenly vacant position on the Council. It is the Council's hope that by doing so, we will be able to maintain as seamless transition as possible while our next chapter takes shape, and so it is my honor to announce that Monday morning, we will be swearing in Spencer Monroe as Interim Councilman.

There's no word, yet, regarding Gregory's cause of death. No questions that might lead to answers involving the Ambition, or Cape Canaveral and Uchinoura falling to the SA. 

He thinks that it's not the sort of thing he's supposed to find comforting. But cowardice and politics, apparently, go hand in hand.   
\--- 

_Sunday, 04/27/2194, 13:28_

The memorial service is quick and quiet and Paul should probably be numb through all of it, but he can't shut his brain off. There's too much to think about. One ship, capable of carrying less than one thousandth of the population, intended to travel less than half of the distance they'll require. The fact that there's no way to spin it, really, when the question's inevitably asked. 

The only reason the team's still even _working_ on it is that the Council hasn't yet shut them down. And as long as his team's not looking up from their screens, they can pretend that what they're doing might still make a dent, a scratch. Any sort of impact at all. 

"You okay?" 

Maggie's got a hand on his arm, standing a little closer than most of the others who've been asking him the same thing for the past twenty minutes, but it's Maggie. She's like that. Beth, for her part, keeps looking at him like she's worried about him, or maybe it's just that she doesn't know what to do with herself any more than he does. 

He nods, thinks, suddenly, about the way the doors of the reclamation chamber had slid shut so silently. It had been a later modification, he'd learned, making small talk with the attendant while they'd waited for Gregory's body to be brought up from the morgue. They'd slowed down the motors, replaced the doors so it wouldn't slam shut, out of respect. 

He'd thought that, were the attendant off duty, and were he himself in a better mood, it's the kind of thing they might've joke about: _sure, you're shoving your family member onto a belt which will deposit them into something that could euphemistically be called a fast-acting composter, but you wouldn't want to be loud about it_

"Yeah." He needs to focus, only for a little while longer, and he smiles up at Maggie, spots Hershel stepping over to join them. "Thanks."

"It was a good speech you gave," Hershel smiles, shaking his hand. 

"Learned from the best." The head nod towards Gregory's picture on the screen is what makes it untrue, but the words aren't a lie; Dr. Kekoa, who'd taught civics and debate, had been responsible for that. But he'd died a long time ago and as far as Paul can tell, the details don't matter in conversations like this. 

They probably hadn't mattered when he'd gone up to the podium, either. He'd been so careful with his words they'd probably been ignored completely, which had seemed a better option than standing in front of the Council and the few dozen Admin who'd shown up, and reading off a list of reasons he'd never really liked the man. Gregory's dead, now. All of his backbiting egocentrism- all of his willful inability to listen to anything that didn't match his view of the world- was no longer a concern. 

"Had nothing on yours, though," he tells him, and this, at least, isn't a lie. Hershel'd actually managed to get a few laughs here and there. Nothing inappropriate, just enough to break the tension that always sucks all the air out of the room on occasions like this. 

"Yeah, well. I knew him longer than you did." There's a glint in his eye as his eyebrows twitch. "Means I got all the good embarrassing childhood stories on my side."

\--- 

_Monday, 04/28/2194, 09:35_

Spencer, for the five minutes of time that Paul spends in his direct presence before Spencer's swept towards the front of the auditorium, is predictably insufferable. 

The preening and the posturing is bad enough, and frankly, Paul can't even begin to imagine what Spencer'd meant when he says, "Look, Paul. I know things must be hard for you right now, but for what it's worth, I'll do everything in my power to honor your father's legacy."

Honestly, all Paul wants to do is ask him what he means by that, given what he'd been saying over dinner last week. But it's a bad move, especially with so many people milling around. So he smiles and nods and plays along. Doesn't even call him on the whole _father_ thing. 

It's just a spot on the council. Getting them back up to the legally mandated number of votes required to elect a new Governor. This isn't the end of the world. 

_But yeah_ , he can't help thinking. _Spencer will just be presiding over it._

\--- 

Some day, Paul might be able to look back at this weekend and think, _well, as far as transfers of power go, it was relatively bloodless_ , but one, he's not there yet. And two, the notion of _some day_ is, well... 

Right now, too much of it is on _him_. 

Paul watches from the back of the hall as Councilwoman Yang ,standing at the dais with the Council seated in a row behind her, outlines the details of Spencer's term. For now, at least everyone's still maintaining the illusion that the word _interim_ means anything at all. Some of Gregory's duties have been spread among other Council members- those pertaining to Earth contact, most notably, have been split between Yang and Singh, who's got oversight of Dock Command. 

"As you all know," Yang is saying. "The Security Oversight Committee is among those chaired by the Governor. And while we have no intention of breaking with the Charter, in light of last night's regrettable lawlessness, it is imperative that we maintain an organized security presence. Toward that end, Councilman Coates, as vice chair, will be serving as intermittent chair." 

So far, the hundred or so gathered here to watch the address- mostly Admin, though SciMed and Agriculture seem well represented- seem to be half-sleeping through the whole thing, but then again, Yang's not laying out anything that's surprising or shocking. _Business as usual_ is on their side. 

And as fucked up as it is, it could be that half the shit he's been worried about is just in his head. He's been hyper-focused on this, and the rest of the colony's still getting by just fine. It might not turn out to be all that bad, he thinks. 

For about five seconds. 

"While it may seem that we are merely playing musical chairs, here- and thank you, all, for bearing with me today- it is not without clear consideration that we are doing so. So as to minimize the disruption of the committee obligations of the more senior members of the Council, it has been determined that Coates' vice-chair position will best be filled by Councilman Monroe. We have every faith that Councilmen Coates and Monroe will adapt to their new roles with diligence and focus. I'm sure that this transitional time will go smoothly," Yang glances down at her tablet, and then grins up at the crowd, "and that we are up to the challenge of having two Monroes on the same committee." 

She pauses for laughter from the audience, and turns it over to the floor for questions. Paul's just got the one, though. 

_What the fuck?_


	9. Chapter 9

_Wednesday, 04/30/2194, 06:20_

"It's fucked up, is what it is," Abe says, crossing his arms, and from the looks of it, Daryl's not the only one who's inclined to agree with him. 

"I'm not so sure about that," Maggie says, from the back of the room. She, Hershel, Beth and a few of the other 'culturalists have crashed their morning briefing, thanks to the main topic on the agenda AdSec's too busy trying to sort shit out to even be wasting their time on make-work assignments.

Aaron nods, swiveling his head back to the front of the room. "If that were the case, we should've seen something about it from Coates or Hodges, right? But there's nothing. There's no _record_ of this coming from anyone above Negan. Seems to me like he's trying to find excuses to start fights before anyone up the chain catches up to him."

"Yeah," Rick allows, scratching at his beard. "Yeah, it does, don't it?" 

Hershel casts a glance in Maggie's direction, and says, loudly enough that it's clear that he's not wanting to dwell on the currently fucked security situation. "Well, now, this is hardly the first time we've had to run a full inventory."

"Just the first time the ticket's been put in by security without any context," Maggie says, apparently having no such qualms. "Same's that brig job."

"Well, just because it's not listed in the work order," Hershel points out, "It doesn't mean there isn't one."

"Well," Rick nods, crossing his arms. "I'll look into it, see if I can't find anything else. But in the meantime, let's work with their timeline. If it doesn't amount to anything, it ain't the end of the world. Shouldn't take long, seeing as how we just compiled the report for Engineering a few weeks back, so most of it'll already be on file with them. Anyone restricted to light duty?"

Daryl doesn't risk glancing up. This whole week's been nuts, but nobody, so far as he knows, has been flagged by medical for anything. He's fine now, he doesn't need to sit around poking at a goddamn screen all day.

Thankfully, Sasha's volunteering. "Computer terminal beats composter any day."

"All right, you take point. Aaron and Eric, you guys keep in touch in case she needs any spot checks in storage or anything." Rick doesn't look up from his tablet as he continues. "Abe, go ahead and run the closeout on the airlocks, get that all tied up. Sven, you and your guys want to take on the brig? Ain't a high priority but leaving it hanging open any longer's just giving AdSec, Negan, _whoever_ , an excuse."

Sven nods, bowing his ridiculously square jaw once. "Sure thing."

"Well," Rick says, "I'm not one to tempt fate, here, but there are seven open priority twos down on the strip, one of them's the casino. Soon's that's taken care of, the sooner everyone can get to getting a handle on the odds-" he grins widely at the groan this elicits- "regarding the whole Saviors vs. AdSec debacle."

Glancing down at his tablet again, Rick frowns, muttering to himself for a minute before looking it. "All right, so I forgot to charge the damned thing, but, okay. Glenn, you're our water guy. As far as line control goes-"

"I'll do it," Gabriel's hand shoots up, fast enough that Rick seems surprised.

"All right, great. You guys, get your crew and head back with the Green's. Take a look at the composters awhile you're out there, just be sure to update the work order. Daryl, you take point on the strip. Take Bob, Chad and Monte with you. Y'all finish early, go over and back Glenn's team up."

"All right," Glenn stands up, glancing first at Maggie, and then, slightly less enthusiastically, at Hershel, before turning to everyone else on his crew, who are, unsurprisingly, dragging their feet. "Just be warned, last one on scene will find themselves elbows deep in raw sewage before the afternoon lets out, so y'all might want to make it quick."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 04/30/2194, 12:01_ growing paranoia in the ranks

Nothing about today is going quick. Bob's probably hungover, but he's pulling his weight just fine. He's also taking quiet pulls off the flask he's got stowed in his coveralls, but it ain't nothing to complain about; it keeps his hands steady. But usually, he'd be runnin' off at the mouth about anything and everything that crosses his mind. As pointless as it was tryin' to follow any of it, at least it would pass the time. 

The New Kid- Chad or Chaz or something like that- is barely making any effort whatsoever. He'd arrived on the same ship Carol'd stowed away on, almost a year ago. But the name ain't so much about that; there'd already been another dozen or so new arrivals, last time a ship docked planetside. It's just that he's belligerently ignorant, and has yet to make any attempts to stop bein' such a dumb shit. 

The casino ain't a high priority- they would've gotten to it by now if it was- but the power line running along the back of it into the convenience store across the alley still is. The damned converter box might've only taken one or two badly aimed blaster hits, but it might as well have been nuked from low orbit, and it's blacked out everything this side of the strip. There's not a whole lot they can do to repair the blown circuit- or anything else on this side of the strip- until Sasha's finished signing off on the inventory for electrical. 

Olivia, the store manager, isn't wild about the prospect of running manually for another day, but business is slow anyway. Across the street, the pizza joint and a few other food stands are open- the liquor store will be at five- but the tables are filled more than usual anyway. For the most part, it's people waiting on _them_ to get the wiring sorted out on this side of the street. Some of them look to be strip workers, chipping in their accrued leave, others are just off shift. There're the usual cleaners scattered throughout, but without people buying things or drinking or making any other kind of mess, they're mostly standing around, bored, staring at the feedscreens. With only half of the strip in operation, it feels like everyone's bein' quiet on purpose, like they used up their noise on Friday night. 

The point is, nobody's got anything to do besides watching _them_ , and it's makin' the hair on the back of Daryl's neck stand on end. Doesn't help that the only ones making any sound at all are the two tables filled with bored vid shop employees. 

The vid shop- it's even further down the list than the casino- has viewing booths in the back that went obsolete a year or two after the strip got established. So people'd found other uses for them. Normally, the prostitutes would probably be seein' enough action on the weekends to not even poke their heads out during the day, but with no air, no power, and no prospect of business, none of 'em had anything better to do than try and drum up clients for later. 

Either that, or they're just as bored as everyone else. Chad, of course, is flirting right back at them- the females in the group anyway. 

Exchanging an eye-roll with Bob, who's starting to pull wires out of the box, Daryl turns his attention to the casino's broken window. The glass is gonna have to come out; might as well get to it before anyone realizes that Chad's not enough of a distraction to keep all of them busy. 

"Hey Daryl," Clarice, smiling wide, is walking over to him, hips swaying, though she hasn't bothered doin' up her hair. "Those wings you sporting just decoration, or am I to take it that you're in with Father Stokes?"

Gabriel might be a preacher and he might not be- he's not as denominational as Daryl'd been expecting, the first time they'd met- but he's Techniki first and foremost. He'd volunteered to go to the farms, probably on account of his radar for this kind of bullshit. If he hadn't, everyone sittin' down at the tables would've been swarming him by now, tryin' to get a rise out of him. 

"Neither," he says, though she already knows it, and is probably just flirting for the sake of it. Not too hard, though, 'cause she just snorts, leans against the wall next to him. Working his hands into his gloves more securely, he gets back to work on pulling the broken glass out of the frame. 

His back twitches when something lands on it, only there ain't no bugs out here. Clarice is prodding at his back with the tip of her finger, but long as he doesn't react, it won't go no further than that. "Need to touch it up, either way." 

There ain't no real point to it, nowadays. The paint jobs on their gear had been more of Merle's crew's thing, though it had been going on before either of them had come up here. Easier to tell who's who from across a field or outside the membrane; the people in charge of designing the standard issue gear hadn't thought that far ahead.

And for a while- before things had started going as bad here as they'd gone on Earth- it had been one familiar thing on a hostile alien planet. Sure, there might not've been bikes or open road or beer that tasted like anything other than absolute shit, but the people'd been the same. You knew how to act around 'em. 

So Merle'd painted a ram's head on his shit. Joe, he'd been the leader, back then, he'd had roses on his. Daryl hadn't been so picky; he'd gone with the wings mostly because it had already been on the sealsuits that had been up for grabs. Hadn't planned on making it a thing until he'd been given his toolbox; it, too, had gone through at least one previous owner, and it had taught him that even the other end of a spaceship ride to the long end of the universe, you get enough dumb assholes together, at least one or two them are gonna be the kind of fuckhead to paint Nazi shit on their gear. Merle'd been that kind of fuckhead, too, though, so Daryl'd had to paint over that shit before he'd even gotten it back to the yard. 

The wings are mostly splattered over with a whole mess of paint and epoxy and grease anyway, and the paint's been cracking and peeling off his coveralls too, but there ain't no point to retouching any of that shit now. Especially with Merle's ram's head bein' all sandblasted and half-buried outside the membrane. Like, he could fix his own shit up now, but it would feel like some sort of declaration, and he doesn't know what it would mean. 

He grunts, and wrenches the safety glass towards him. It breaks, folds towards him, cubes crumbling off at the edges as he heaves the bulk of it into the bin, but it doesn't break in any sort of satisfying way. It never does, up here. 

By the time he looks up again, Clarice has sauntered off again, heading up the strip towards a trio of guys walking down the avenue, crossing in front of Kelly Huang's counter. Her not-quite-casual trajectory's going to intersect with theirs, in a minute. Maybe she'll have better luck there. 

Or maybe not. He only notices because it's quick movement in his peripheral, but she's breaking off, heading back to the tables instead, and it's sudden enough that he actually turns his head to look. 

Dwight, Simon and Negan are heading this way. He glances over his shoulder, intent on warning Bob and Chad, but they've already clocked them coming. So he turns back to the glass, and keeps his head down. 

"Well _hello_ , guys," Negan says, showboating before he's even come to a stop. "How's it going this fine afternoon? You all keeping busy?"

Daryl glances at him with a grunt, then gets back to jimmying the last edges of the broken pane out of the frame. Over his shoulder, he hears Bob make a similar noise. 

"Yeah, are you?" New Kid bites out, despite the fact that he's been here long enough to at least know to check his tone. 

Negan seems to be in agreement on that point. He starts laughing; his cronies join in once he does. 

"Fucking hell," Bob mutters, under his breath; Daryl wonders if he, too, has started contemplating the weaponization of any of the tools he's got within reach. 

"Us? No, we ain't _busy_. And that's kind of the problem, kid. See, like everyone _else_ out here, we're waiting on you guys to get shit fixed so we can get back to work. And, on that note, I can't help noticing that you've been standing around, making leisurely conversation while your colleagues are hard at it." Making a show of glancing over at Clarice and her crew, he adds, "Pun most certainly intended. Now, Chad? I can only imagine that this means that _you_ are a more efficient worker than the likes of them. Which you've got somewhere else to be, like, you know. Over on the brig ticket like the damned computer _says_ you're supposed to fucking be."

"Got tasked to this," New Kid says. "You want me somewhere else, take it up with Grimes."

"Take it up with Grimes." Negan whistles, and Daryl stares down at the window frame. He ain't getting dragged into whatever bullshit New Kid's playing at. "Really? That's how you... all right, fine. You got a screen on you? Yeah? Pull that baby out and bring up the job queue... yeah. See that open ticket on the brig? It's been there since Monday with no real response whatsoever. I mean, one lumbering ox ain't gonna do the job, you know? And down below there? That's your name, ain't it? And before you get to whining, I figure I'd do you the favor of remindin' you that we security guys? We have our orders, and we don't take them from your buddy Rick." He clicks the _k_ dismissively, his tone hard enough that Daryl can't help but glance up. 

"And our orders? Are to make sure that we ensure the ongoing safety of the 1300 souls out here on this godforsaken rock. Sometimes, that means making sure that the facility upgrades get handled in a timely manner. Other times, that means, well, making sure that idiots such as yourself don't go around spreadin' nonsense ideas."

"You want me jump projects on nothing more than your say-so?"

"Winner winner, chicken dinner. Unless you want to convince me that your time is better spent whoring on the clock."

"Screw you, man. I was just waiting on the guys-"

"Who, I'm sure, have the situation well in hand. There's fifty years of debris that need clearing out over in AdSec, son, and that's where you need to be." 

Reluctantly, aware of the good odds that he's about to watch the New Kid become a dead one, Daryl turns from the window and stands up. In his peripheral, he can see Bob doing the same, like he's waiting to see if he's going to need to step in. Only Simon has his hand hovering over the blaster on his hip; it's as good a warning as anyone's likely to get, where Saviors are concerned. 

But that, apparently, ain't enough for the New Kid, who shakes his head and rolls his eyes, drawing himself up to full height. Daryl's fingers twitch. _Fucking idiot_. Glancing out across the street, he notices the prostitutes are all watching, silent, eyes wide. 

"I don't take orders from you, man, and if you want help clarifying that, I'd be happy to call AdSec down here."

It's bad enough that he says it at all, much in front of an audience. Doesn't help that he's apparently still laboring under the delusion that AdSec and Saviors aren't one and the same, or that they're hardly going to come out here to chew out their rogue agent on the word of some grunt. Right now, Negan's wearing the only grin on the strip. 

He wonders, watching Simon draw his blaster out, if everyone else is hating themselves for not being a little more like the New Kid. It had been a stupid play, but it's more'n any of the rest of them'd had the balls to make.

It's more likely, watching them watch the New Kid's body twitch and then drop to the ground, that they're all just trying not to be noticed, trying not to react. 

After a minute, the New Kid takes a deep breath, and drags himself up to his knees. There's no sense of relief yet, since even with the blasters set to stun, a second blast within two minutes is enough to kill some people. Instead, all anyone can spare is another round of mute witnessing. 

Thankfully- and it's fucked to think that, but the Kid's still breathing- the blast's done its job, and the he's too shaky to try another cheap shot. Which is good, considering how _stupid_ his first attempt had been. 

"All right," the Kid's saying, his voice half-strangled in his throat because his heart's working overtime, trying to figure out what it's supposed to be doing. He's picking himself up off the ground- at least he hadn't pissed himself- and he's nodding, hands raised. "All right. Don't shoot, _fine_. I'm coming."

And maybe the New Kid's finally starting to figure out how shit works here, because he doesn't look back at them, as they all set off on their way. 

They're almost out of earshot when he hears the Kid cough, and then grumble, "All I'm sayin' is, a _please_ , every once in a while, wouldn't be totally out of place."

This time, when Negan laughs, he almost sounds impressed. And there's something about that that's troubling as hell.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thursday, 05/01/2194, 11:00_

"The guys check in yet?" Marlena asks, a few seconds after her face shows up on his door's ID screen, forcing him to put on the mask of someone well-rested and focused. Waving her towards one of the seats in the anteroom he's converted into an office, he shakes his head and ducks back into his room to find his shoes, faintly embarrassed that she'd caught him barefoot, this late in the day. 

"They're late." 

He hasn't laid eyes on Connor, Dale or Eugene in days, since they've been holed up over dockside trying to augment the RV's jump capabilities and mapping out the hull upgrades. They've even brought in a small crew to assist with the latter, thanks to the work order Councilwoman Lin's office- an overhaul in preparation for a research expedition- had requested as cover. 

So far, all they've reported back are a nothing to worry about- a few mild complaints about the expedition's timing being so close to the next resupply shipment; as far as anyone dockside can tell, they're being pulled in two directions at once. And there's nothing he can do about it from here- going there in person would raise questions since he's never worked dockside- so he's been sitting here in his room, waiting for word on the wire, trying not to suffocate under his own ineffectiveness. 

All this, just for a tiny ship that's not going to do anyone any good at all.

There's a chime in his ear, just as Paul's noticing that the sole on his left shoe is starting to come loose, and Dale's on the line. "Rovia, you there?" 

"Yeah."

"Sorry to keep you waiting, but the crew was on my ass about the forward shielding. But I've got good news, for once. Eugene pulled through, and we should have full jump capabilities by tomorrow or the day after."

"Seriously?" Walking back out into the office, he holds up a hand to get Marlene's attention, not that she's doing anything besides waiting on him to get his act together anyway. "That's great. Nice work, all of you. " 

"Yeah. As long as Connor can get the structural stabilizations sorted out, it'll be good to go."

He has to ask, though, and it's not like Dale's not expecting the question. "What are we looking at? One way, or round trip?"

There's a pause before he replies; it's enough to tell him that the silver lining's looking a lot thinner than either of them would've wanted. "One way only. Sorry, man. But like we've been saying, if it's just for one team make contact and find something larger Earthside..."

"I know." He'd expected as much- hell, he'd been trying to expect a whole lot less. So this disappointed feeling he's got coiling in his gut is unwarranted. Just knowing that they could feasibly make the trip in less than 240 years is huge. He should be satisfied with that. 

It's just. It would be different if they hadn't lost Earth's signal. Even if a crew manages to get to Earth only to find that no help is available, they won't be able to report back. The colony will just be here, waiting, hope dying slowly by the day. 

"You guys need anything from me? Or should I stay out of your hair?"

"Uh. The latter. Sorry. We're about to start programming the downjump module, I'm thinking Eugene's not going to want to be disturbed."

"All right, well, pass along my thanks, all right? Marlene and I are heading out over to Ag, so patch in if you need to."

He disconnects, and before he's even turned around, Marlene's asking, "Good news?" 

He scrapes up a bit of optimism as he turns. "It's starting to look not completely impossible, as long the RV doesn't collapse in hyperspace, and as long as nobody dockside looks too hard at their math and notices that they're overshooting the local planets by about a thousand percent. Wouldn't want anyone catching on that there's anything to worry about before CIO Yang announces to the colony at large that it's too late to even _bother_."

Paul realizes he's been staring at the wall- _tonight_ , he'll sleep. He'll get eight hours and have his shit together tomorrow. 

"Hey," Marlene says, nudging him in the shoulder, "politics suck. But we're still here, we still have time, and at least everyone's working on the right things, now. Yeah?"

He forces a smile that he doesn't really feel. She makes it sound so simple. Which, he supposes, compared to the work Dale, Connor, and Eugene are doing right now, it probably is. 

"All right, so I've been thinking," she continues, "if we start off over at OT, get the Techniki out of the way first, maybe we can get everyone on board with the notion of what they need to do before the Council makes their grand proclamation and orders them to do it. Like a show of good faith. After that, we talk to Ag, get a population majority buying in before we even take it to the other enclaves. By the time we round back to AdSec and Docks, this whole thing could be in the bag."

He nods, looking for his bag, then ducking back into his bedroom to grab it off the hook. "Does it seem weird to you? All this going around, currying favor like the enclaves are rival nations or something?"

"Pretty sure that's exactly what we are," she calls back. "The Technicki are going to need explanations. Assurances and concessions, maybe, given how the Saviors, and by extension, AdSec- but really Admin, _us_ \- have been dealing with them the last few years." 

"But we don't have any to offer." Shouldering his bag, he straightens out his clothes, crosses back into the office and gestures towards the door. "I mean, we can make recommendations to the Council, and we've got leeway with Engineering, but we're not in a position to offer anything immediate." 

"Fair enough. You got another idea? Preferably one that doesn't wind up with us poking hostile tigers with very breakable sticks?"

He gives it some thought, to cover for the fact that he's been giving it some thought. He doesn't want to outright dismiss her idea, since it's not really a bad one. "We talk to Ag first. I mean, if we're thinking about long-term sustainability, food resources are going to be at the top of the list. And politically, the 'culturalists could maybe serve as a bridge with the Techniki. I mean, I think if we're going to get Grimes to sway his people into working with us, we're going to need the Greens on board first." 

\--- 

Thursday, 05/01/2194, 14:30 

Maggie is smart enough to realize that Paul and Marlene, sitting across a meeting room table strewn with hydroponic schematics, are holding out on them. Thankfully, Hershel's sitting next to her, and he's better at reading the politics of the situation; he steps in before she can really work up any steam to get too pointed about any of it. 

"Whatever it is," Hershel assures her, "It's probably not on them. I'm _sure_ we'll be notified of any upcoming situation as soon as the Council deems it pertinent to our interests."

"He's right," Marlene chimes in, her smirk matching Hershel's sarcasm, and making it clear that she doesn't really give a damn whether she's speaking out of turn or not. 

"So," Paul says, glancing down at his tablet before they have a chance to get too far off topic. "There are currently 120 acres of space in the commons that could, down the line, be turned over to production if the need arose. What would you need in order to make that happen?"

"Soil testing, first. I mean, we know for a fact that the blowers have managed to shed topsoil all over the damned place; it would be good to know if that's done us any favors. I'm guessing what we'd be looking at..." Maggie gives her father a questioning, only slightly pleading look.

"We'd need to increase composting capacity by at least thirty percent, and even once that's done, it would be two months before we'd see any results there, so that should be the priority."

Maggie nods, then glances back at Marlene. "We could also shut them down for a while if it's an overestimation. But once the ground's prepped, we'd need power to the lights if we're going to extend the growing season, in the greenhouses as well as in the fields."

"What about workforce?"

"It couldn't hurt to have another dozen or so hands on deck, but we could make do with nine if we had to." Maggie's clearly on firmer ground, now that they're talking about people, but she's been managing the 'culturalists for a while now. It's not surprising. "But it would require cross training."

Hershel, nodding absently, looks up. "And there's still the matter of the greenhouses and hydro. A 20 to 25 percent expansion of system resources wouldn't go amiss."

"Wow," Marlene grins, entering the info onto her tablet. "You're quick with those numbers."

"Should be," Hershel nods at her, before mugging dramatically at Paul. "They've been keeping me up nights for twenty years now."

"If we're planning on an expansion, for _whatever_ reason," Maggie says, either because she knows something that she's not saying, or because she's still sore that _they're_ not telling her. "We can handle the training, but we're also going to need to handle distribution, storage, and monitoring of increased stock. I mean, when we bring the engineers in, they'll drum up the plans just fine, but someone's going to be have to prioritize the tickets for the Techniki, since they'll be doing all the the initial labor for setup."

"That's not a problem." It's nice, Paul thinks, that she's arrived at the conclusion on her own. "But you're right. There've been issues with them in the past, and that's actually the next thing I was hoping to get into with you two. The Technicki respects you people more than he does ours." 

Hershel makes a face like he's going to argue for the sake of politeness, but Maggie just smirks. 

"You _think?_ "

"I _know_. But I also know that as part of this project, Marlene and I have been tasked with trying to bolster relations. And I think I can do that, but I'm not going to pretend that there's any trust in that department."

"And you think we can help?"

"I think you have Rick Grimes' ear."

"Sure," Hershel says. "I'll bend it for you, no problem, but you're going to need to back it up."

"Thanks," Paul says, but something in Hershel's tone gives him pause; he's got something specific on his mind. "What do you have in mind?"

Hershel and Maggie exchange a glance; apparently it's Maggie's job- or personality- that lends her an edge in being conversationally impolitic. She leans back in her chair and stretches her arms over her head, then shrugs. 

"Well, we've got the Techniki covered. Maybe _you've_ got someone on AdSec you could talk to about the Saviors? 'Cause it's all well and good, your comin' around here- it really is, that's not sarcasm- but the fact remains that Negan's guys have been coming past here for the past four days, dragging Techniki and 'culturalists off their jobs to work on some low priority ticket like it's the only thing that needs to be on anybody's radar, never mind whatever else we've got going on."

Paul raises his eyebrow. Apart from a few things that had been flagged specifically for his attention, he hasn't taken a look at the job tracking system in a few days. He does so now, his eyes going wide. The system's a chaotic _mess_. 

"Wait," Maggie's staring at him disbelievingly. "You seriously had no idea?" 

"It's been a weird week."

"Well, shit. You want help bridging the gap with the Techniki, you might want to start with knowing what the fuck's actually happening with them, first," she says, earning a chastising look from Hershel, which she ignores. "For cryin' out loud, just yesterday Negan blasted a guy in the street, and four hours later, he's putting in for a transfer into security. It's fucked up."

"Maggie..."

"No, it's okay. She's right." There's no point in offering excuses; right now, he just needs to get moving. "I'm going to go see what I can figure out on that front. I know we still have a lot to talk about here-" they haven't even gotten to the irrigation systems, yet- "Marlene?"

"I've got this, can catch you up," she nods, shooting him a small grin before turning back to her tablet.

\--- 

He gets on comms the moment he steps back outside. The sky's a little darker, he thinks, than it had been half an hour ago. Another few weeks, it'll actually be night. 

"Hey Paul." 

"Hey," he says. He's on Heath's private channel, though there's a chance that technically, this is the sort of conversation that should go on record. But it won't go anywhere if it's being logged, and he knows it. "You got a minute?"

"Uh, hang on..." There's a jostling on the other end of the line. "Okay, yeah. Just had to ping the rounds monitor. What's up?"

"So I've been out of the loop-"

"Yeah, I saw you were clocked in, what's up with that? You doing all right? Thought, you know, with everything, you were still on leave."

For a moment, he thinks about telling him that it's fine, that his stepfather's death just hasn't really sunk in yet. There's a part of him clinging to the idea that it might still hit him later, once and if things settle down. Because the other option is that one evening spent getting deliberately drunk was all it had taken for him to grieve and get on with it; he probably owes him more than that. Gregory hadn't _raised_ him, and he'd been an asshole more often than not, but he hadn't kicked him to the curb after Mom'd died, either. 

For the time being, though, it seems to be enough to meet every offer of condolences with a quick thanks and a nod; thankfully, nobody's had the opportunity or interest in delving deeper into the matter. And so far, he's been honestly content to let everyone think that he's still just a nice guy who's burying his head in his work as a means of processing. There's even a part of him that thinks that maybe it's actually true. He's starting to suspect, though, that deep down? He's the same kind of callous asshole Gregory had been. 

Not that he's going to admit it to Heath. He's honest, genuine. Probably too much so, it's starting to dawn on, for the likes of him. 

"Leave? Yeah, not so much," he tells him instead, fighting off a yawn that comes out of nowhere. "It's been a weird couple of days. I'm out here talking with Hershel Greene, and I'm looking at the job queue, and I'm... kind of hoping you can catch me up on what the hell, exactly, is going on with Negan and the brig."

"Oh, shit, you _have_ been out of the loop," Heath laughs, but he doesn't sound happy. "Hang on a second, let me get back outside." 

For a minute, all he can hear is Heath breathing and the sound of movement; it goes on long enough that Paul starts wondering if there's anything he could or should be saying to fill the space. But he doesn't have the energy. Doesn't even have the desire, for better or worse, either. 

"All right, here's what's up. It's completely insane. Your boy Spencer, flexing his shiny new powers, has decided that his number one priority is to start reinforcing security. AdSec, Saviors, facilities. All of it."

"Just like that?"

"Spencer's on the Security Committee, it _is_ just like that. First we heard of it was a work order about the brig. Wanted the gear cleared out of the cells on sub-level two, getting them prepped to be used for holding people again. A couple of the guys started asking questions, and here's where it got fucked. Spencer- he's been sitting in on the morning briefings, and _that's_ a new fresh hell, let me tell you- he was all, 'Well, we've seen how this last weekend went. This will at least put people's minds at ease. They'll see that we've acknowledged the threat and that we're responding.'"

" _What_ threat?"

"The Techniki, apparently, if you can believe _that_ shit. He had Engineering put the work order through, and they did, low priority because, well, the strip's not even back up and running yet, never mind the daily maintenance filling the queue, and Spencer was just posturing anyway. So yeah, that's the last we figured we'd be hearing about it, and we went along our day. Flash forward a few days, and it turns out that the Saviors have taken it upon themselves to mess with the priority flagging. They want it done yesterday, and the grunts can damn well just hop _to_ , you know?"

"Yeah?"

"It gets worse. Apparently they've been going through, pulling Techniki off of other jobs. It's fucking up the queue, it's fucking with the _people_ , and they're being their charming selves, doing it, so there've been a few medical visits as well. I was on shift at SciMed when one of 'em was brought in. You remember Dr. Cloyd? From the reunion?"

"Yeah?" 

"Well, she was _furious_ , raised holy hell with Negan. It was a thing of beauty, except for the fact that it had the rest of us puttin' our hands on our blasters, you know what I mean? And Negan, he informed her, along with the two half-conscious dudes they'd dragged in, that priorities set by Admin didn't amount to shit, seein' as how none of y'all ever leave the enclave."

"That's bullshit."

"Yeah, I mean..." He sounds apologetic. "It's been brewing a while. I mean, I'm in briefings with these assholes _daily_ for years now. It's just lately that they've gotten really good at selective hearing when it comes to the orders they've been given."

"So why've they been getting away with it?"

"Because nobody who outranks them has actually done shit about it. You curious about that, check out the AdSec complaint files and take a look at how many of them me and my guys have put in. Figure you probably have clearance to see 'em, now."

Paul does. Not that he's eager to delve into them. He hasn't brought up the SVIOR system since the first time he'd looked at it.

"Anyhow, whatever," Heath continues. "Ain't no point in even trippin' on it, 'cause this morning? Councilman Spencer Monroe once again graced our briefing with his presence, and basically ordered all of us to toe the line. Seems good, right? Only, far as anyone can tell, he wasn't talking to Negan. He was talking to the rest of us."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Either Monroe's weak and naive, or he's in on it. And on top of that, we've got a new trainee on the force, just transferred in yesterday from Techniki. Word is, he was working on the crew fixing up the strip and started mixing it up with Negan, got blasted for his troubles. Now he's shadowing Simon like they're blood brothers. It's twitch-inducing, y'know?"

"Fuck. For what it's worth, I'll lodge a complaint with the Council."

Heath snorts. "You really think that promotion bought you their ear or something?"

It hadn't, he knows, not in any practical way, and at least not on the surface. But with everything Deanna had been going on about the other night, maybe he's got something he can leverage. 

"Yes and no." _I'm going to go tattle to his mom,_ he realizes, cringingly. "Or, well, no and maybe, but it's worth a shot, right?"

"Anything is, man. Listen, I gotta get back on shift, but yeah, thanks for whatever you can manage. Next round's on me."

"Yeah, no worries. Thanks."

He disconnects the call, grinning bitterly as he stares over the Ag field and out past the commons. A week ago, the vaguest _prospect_ of a drink with Heath would've made his day; now he can't even appreciate it. 

School's just getting out down the way; kids are swarming out of the buildings and splintering off to head to their home sectors, flocking systematically, like birds. But there's a disruption in the pattern, a gaggle of Techniki kids veering off course to avoid the uniformed patrol coming up the path. 

Smart kids.


	11. Chapter 11

_Friday, 05/02/2194, 18:22_

After spending another day finishing the work down out the strip with one eye out for Negan's crew- they haven't reappeared, thankfully- Daryl's tense, and there's a part of him that's spoiling for a fight. A few years ago, it would've been easier to find one that he had half a shot of winning. Even if it was just him and Merle, squaring off over some bullshit.

It's Friday, but nobody on this side of the colony's been talking about heading down to the strip tonight; it's been weirdly quiet the past few days. It's starting to get claustrophobic under the membrane. But he hasn't been down to the dock gate in about a month. He might as well go see if it's suddenly gotten interesting. As he's heading downstairs, vaguely intent on heading for the perimeter walkway, he comes across Rick and Michonne instead.

They're sitting on the makeshift picnic table outside the Techniki briefing hall, heads down and talking quietly, but Michonne spots him easily enough, too quickly to be avoided. 

Bob had told Rick about it yesterday, just before taking off on another bender, and this morning at the shift briefing, Rick himself had confirmed that Chad's transfer had gone through. But apparently that hadn't been the end of it, because when Rick looks up at Daryl now, it's clear that he's still worried.

"What's going on?"

"Still just trying to sort this shit with Chad out in my head."

"Ain't nothing to sort," Daryl points out, not that it's likely to get him a pass on this entire conversation. But it's Rick, so he doesn't want to blow him off, neither. 

"He bailed on us for _Negan_ ," he says, "it's kind of hard not to worry what's going on."

"What's going on is the New Kid figured out how to get those Savior fuckers to back off, then fucked himself over for his troubles."

"De-escalating the situation and getting clear is one thing. He _transferred_. I mean, I know things have been rough lately, and that he and I never really exactly saw eye to eye on anything, I know that. But to go that far?" 

"His bailing ain't nothin' to take personal," Daryl'd replied, not that he was usually the one who was good at pointing out the silver linings. "New Kid's still the New Kid for a reason, and it ain't on account of his bein' any sort of genius." That ain't right though, not exactly. It takes him a minute to sort it out in his head. "He's an asshole, ain't saying he ain't, but he's not _that_ kind of asshole- he back-talked Negan with no problem. Earned himself a blast for his troubles. Got out from under it and saved his skin, end of story."

Only that's not all of it, either, but it takes him a minute to sort it out in his head. "I mean, they blasted him right in front of us. For all I know they did it more'n once; we didn't see what happened after they took off. If they didn't fry his brain, they at least freaked him out. Guessin' he got scared or some shit."

"That's a strange way to recruit security staff," Michonne jokes, not putting much effort into it.

"Not so much for gangs, though." 

Rick had been AdSec, for a while, and before that, back on Earth, he'd been some sort of police. It's not surprising that he'd be trying to think along those lines. But Daryl, thanks in part to Merle, had been the sort to keep a lookout _for_ the police. And sometimes it gives him a certain understanding of things that Rick didn't quite get. 

"It's one thing if New Kid's the one wanting to join in," he decides, after a minute, even though there'd been no real telling that that had been the case. "Recruiting's different. You don't start pulling people in out of the blue- not like that and not people like New Kid, anyway- unless you're trying to get the numbers up for something big."

Rick looks at him long and hard enough that Daryl has to think of some way to explain the shit that Merle and him had gotten into. Getting jumped in with the crew, then jumping in new members _for_ the crew when the president decided they needed to start expand past I-75. Wrapping up his split knuckles afterwards, unaware, then, that the state police were starting to close in on the gang's activities. 

Before he and Merle had come up here, before Merle had even been arrested, let alone been considered for Stars not Bars, he'd made him promise to keep his mouth shut. Back then, it had been about making sure that neither of them had to spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders, worrying about retribution for snitching. 

It won't be the same kind of retribution now, though, not with Rick. But Rick blinks, his expression clearing. He looks _hopeful_ , and all he asks is, "Daryl, you got any thoughts on what that might be?"

He shrugs, not really prepared to give any sort of answer that Rick would or could actually use now that the question's been asked. He doesn't get paid to think, or to have opinions, and he's starting to feel like an imposter, standing here talking like shit's otherwise. 

It's a relief when Michonne stretches her arms up over her head and decides that they're not going to sort it out tonight. Rick either humors her or believes her, 'cause he seems to relax a bit. Once that's happened, Daryl figures, it's safe enough to be on his way. 

Still. He thinks about it, as he heads over to the perimeter walkway. He might not get paid for it, but it ain't all bad, bein' asked shit. Even if he doesn't have the answers. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/05/2194, 10:29_

Marlene, Dale, and Connor are at least trying to appear at ease, as they wait outside the Chambers to hear whether or not their proposals have been accepted. Eugene, on the other hand, keeps muttering to himself, and won't stop pacing. 

But when the door opens, and Deanna steps out, it's only Paul she wants to speak to. 

He manages an apologetic grimace at her back as he follows her in, and hopes like hell they'll at least be quick about it. There's no telling, from anyone's expressions, what any of them is thinking. 

After a silence that's threatening to turn into awkwardness, Hodges looks at him, head on, and nods. 

"On the whole," she begins, "and pending, of course, a more thorough review, your team's recommendations regarding the expansion of the fields, the redistribution of workforce, and obviously, the refitting of the RV, we are prepared to ratify your proposal." He can tell from her expression that a grin would be premature. "However, there will be some adjustment to the timeline."

"What's that?"

"We are pushing phase one up in order to coincide with our official statement regarding the SS Ambition, which will be released tonight."

He starts to nod, but catches himself in time. "What about the launch sites? I thought you were planning to lead with that."

"That," CIO Yang raises her eyebrows; she looks exhausted, though not enough that he's feeling any empathy for any of them at the moment, "is a trickier matter. After much debate, we've decided it best to inform the colony that it was the third relay point, rather than the second, where the Ambition's journey came to its unfortunate end."

He's too confused- and angry, though he hasn't yet figured out why- to phrase his question in a more politic manner. "Why lie about it?" 

Singh notices the flub, and frowns, but Deanna takes over smoothly. 

"Well, if you'd rather we all get nailed to the wall because it gets out that we've been holding back that information, it's still an option, though not the one I'd suggest."

"I just mean- sorry- why not tell them the whole story? The Ambition _and_ the launch sites?"

"It's the more immediately terrifying news, but it's more concrete. Very soon, people will be expecting a ship to dock, and for supplies to be replenished, and so that will be the first hurdle- the shock of it all. But it should put everyone in a unified mind concerning the conservation of supplies, and make implementation of your recommended improvements go more smoothly. If people already have defined action to take, they'll be more prepared to handle the idea that we really do need to make this work for the long run."

"Doing it in reverse," Spencer adds, "will just give everyone a sense of dread, before we spring the news on them. And doing it at the same time will overwhelm people, which will be harder to recover from. You and your team, of course, will need to maintain the official story in order for this to work."

Suddenly, Paul realizes, he doesn't honestly give a damn about which lies to tell and which information to hold back. He and his team have done their part. The rest of it lies with the Council. 

"All right," he says, trying to put just the right edge of disagreeable agreement into his voice. It doesn't matter, though, and it doesn't change anything. In the end, as he's gathering up his tablet and turning to head back out to his team, he just feels childish for making the attempt.

"Don't look so glum," Lin says, trying a smile that doesn't quite break free of a grimace. "We have also decided to increase resource deployment towards the Docks."

He blinks at her, not understanding. But then he _does_ , even before she continues. 

"I mean, with all the bad news, at least we'll be able to announce that preparations for a mid-range research expedition had already been underway, so we're ahead of the game in terms of preparing the Sagan RV for a long-haul trip back to negotiate for a new launch site."

Without admitting any prior knowledge of anything at all, of course. Keeping up appearances. 

He's too angry to justify this stupidity with any sort of response. Their projections- colony wide, department by department, enclave by enclave, had been specific for a _reason_ , and the Council seems to think that they can pull not just five percent, but _ten_ out of thin air. 

And the air on this rock is pretty thin as it is. 

\--- 

The debrief with the team is as miserable and frustrating as Paul had been expecting. 

Marlene wants to know if there's any chance for the team to respond, to really press on their recommendations. 

Connor just wants to know when he's getting tasked to officially focus- because of course he's going to be- on the Sagan. Of them all, he's got the least reason to be distressed. After all, he'd just gotten an extra ten percent across the board- resources, workforce. At least _he's_ working on something that's going to be running more smoothly than predicted. Even if it's pointless in the long run. 

Connor, Paul suspects, is probably the type who'd prefer to die in space than waiting for someone else to do it for him. 

Eugene is so angry about the numbers- someone's going to have to figure out where to pull an extra ten percent from, after all, and never mind what the Saviors are taking for themselves- that he can't speak. 

Dale's already halfway out the door, saying, "There ain't enough whiskey on this rock to get drunk enough to listen to the feeds tonight, but I ain't planning on letting that stop me. You guys in?"

Just as he's stepping out into the hallway, Paul catches sight of Spencer heading past, and decides that now- while he's out of Chambers, and alone, at least for the moment- is as good a time as any for his second futile act of the day. 

"In a bit," he says to Dale, before edging past to walk after Spencer.

"Councilman Monroe," he calls out, holding up a hand when Spencer turns. "I'm sure you're busy, but can you spare a moment? There's something I need to ask you about." 

"Look, I know that meeting probably didn't go as perfectly as you thought it would, but-" 

"It's not about that." This, along with the pathetic worry that's more easily forced than he'd like to admit, catches just enough of Spencer's interest that he shrugs, gestures down the hall to his new office. 

"All right then."

He follows Spencer, waits until he's seated in Gregory's old chair- he's irritated by that, but if it's showing, Spencer's probably relishing it anyway, and that might do him some good.

"Have you been in here since last week?"

Paul shakes his head. Keeps his hands at his sides though he really wants to cross them, or put them behind his back or something. 

"Have a seat, at least. This is a matter of location, not status." Spencer shrugs, pulls a face to show that he's only half joking as he plugs his tablet into the dock. "At least, not yet." He's preening a bit, but it could be worse. 

"Well, you might as well make yourself at home for the long haul. I can't imagine, with things being what they are, that anyone outside of the Council is going to have the faintest ability to deal with tonight's news." At this, Spencer sobers, but Paul pushes on, finally sitting down in one of the visitor's chairs. "Just a thought, given the past few days. I'm presuming you've heard about Chad McKenzie?"

Spencer frowns. "I approved his transfer on Thursday."

Paul nods. "Yes. But it's got people nervous. First, there's the issue of him not going through the academy, and just joining up with the Saviors ten minutes after being blasted by them-"

-Already, Spencer's shaking his head- 

"-and secondly-

Spencer interrupts him again. "Calling them the Saviors, though I know it's become popular, only reiterates the idea that our security force is divided. For someone in your position, it's perhaps not the wisest phrasing at your disposal."

"It's no less wise than letting them run rampant in the Techniki enclaves," Paul points out, before he can stop himself. Instantly, whatever diplomatic edge he might've had, is gone. 

So he might as well run with it. 

"The Saviors have been already over-enforcing, re-prioritizing work orders from departments outside their own, and now they're fast tracking assault victims into their ranks. It's freaking people out."

"Frankly, if they're recruiting already, so much the better. While Admin and the professional classes have a good sense of handling the bigger picture, the Techniki miss the nuances."

"Probably because they're being terrorized by _AdSec_ , then." 

"Are they?" Spencer raises his eyebrows, but then he sighs, shaking his head with a rueful grin. "AdSec, to be honest, are the only reason the Techniki don't have us overrun, and the Techniki are the only reasons the _Saviors_ haven't started coming for _us_." 

"So you're, what, playing them against each other?" 

Spencer snorts. "There's no need, though your conspiratorial thinking is cute. No, it's just the state of things." 

"But not, so far as I've seen, one that you've seen fit to handle." 

"I've been in on the Council for _four_ days, now. You have any brilliant ideas on how I ought to have singlehandedly fixed a system- one that, I might add, could have stood to see some response by our late Governor- then I'd love to hear them." Spencer makes a mock-surprised face. "Oh, wait. You've got nothing, either. I'm hoping, once I get the chance to really delve into your team's report, that your recommendations do more to address the security threats than your verbal report did, just now."

At this, Paul says nothing. 

"In the absence of any _clear_ plan," Spencer continues, "AdSec has been forced to prepare for uncertainty. Recruitment is a part of that, and frankly, without so few settlers coming up for the past year and a half, we're going to have to pull from our current population. Right now, Negan and his men, as unpopular as they may be with the types who'd probably rather see this colony burn, happen to be the only ones really following their orders."

"Fast-tracking forces from our current population means pulling people off of projects we've earmarked as being vital to the stabilization of the colony."

"Well, unfortunately for you and your team, you were tasked to make recommendations, not execute them at the Council level. My advice to you would be to stay in your lane for the time being." The _for the time being_ sounds like an afterthought, and probably is. But he seems to be making an effort to keep politic. "Look, Paul. Just think of it as step one in a long negotiation process, and focus on the problems you _can_ solve for now."

"I understand that. But- and I know your time is at a premium and that you've got managers for this- you might want to go over and check in about it at tomorrow's AdSec morning briefing yourself."

"I've been there _every day_." He snorts. "You can't honestly think that anything you're saying is the first I've heard of it, right? I mean, the men in Negan's unit, and their methods, are creating a rift in the unity of our security force, which, right now _especially_ , we can't afford. A unified front is the only way we're going to be able to keep any sort of order, given unrest that we're facing."

He doesn't think that, not at all. It's just that until he'd come in here, he hadn't been sure of Spencer's position on the matter. "I just wanted to be sure," he says, grinning, deliberately apologetically. "If there's anything me or my team can do to help, let me know."

"Of course."

"Thank you," Paul rises to his feet, managing to keep his stance relaxed and his smile calm. He might not've been sure of anything when he'd come in here, but now that he's leaving, he has a suspicion.

Spencer had spoken only in terms of keeping order during the upcoming unrest. He's said nothing about taking steps to prevent it, nor about keeping AdSec's bulldogs in line. Coates, at least, would've had the sense to give lip service to some notion of justice or safety, regardless of any personal beliefs on the matter to the contrary. But with him moving up to chair the security committee at a time when the docks are going to be an ongoing concern for the first time in a decade, the rest of the it'll be left to Spencer.

As soon as Paul's out in the corridor, his grin drops so quickly that the muscles in his throat constrict, and he can't breathe. But there are enough Admin eyes between him and his quarters that he has to smile, at least for a while longer, so he approximates it as he makes his way back. 

It's the kind of shit Gregory would've done, and he hates himself for it.

\---

_Monday, 05/05/2194, 16:05_

It's alfredo night on the chow lines, so Daryl joins up with Abe and Tara and heads down the strip for some slightly reformatted noodles at the Chinese stand. Kelly Huang, who he'd first met on the six-month ride out here, runs the place, and is first to admit that it was more like Chinese by way of space ship, by way of Indiana shopping mall food court. Not that Daryl or anyone he knows has any way of telling the difference. 

Even before they get to the strip, though, they can see that something's going on. People are leaving, and fast, scattering through the commons and back to Admin, everyone returning to their enclaves. 

"That doesn't look good," Tara says, glancing towards SciMed like she's considering a change of course.

"It's _alfredo_ night," Abe reminds her, looking more curious than concerned. "Shit gets weird, we can always decide to starve later." 

"True that," Tara says, stepping into the path of a few 'culturalists coming the other way, hands jammed in the pockets of their green coveralls. Daryl's seen them around, knows they're friends with Beth, but not their names. "What's going on? Did something happen?"

"Newsfeed says the resupply blew up, or something," the younger one says, slowing down as she passes and walking backwards once she does. "Shopkeepers are freaking out, jacking up the prices."

"Fuck me," Abe mutters, finally grinding to a complete stop. 

"Still want to go down there?"

"Might as well check the feeds, see what's going on, go from there," Daryl says, numbly. With the strip clearing out, it's not like there's enough people down there for any shit to really get started. 

Even in his own head, he sounds like he hadn't heard what the girl had said, but he had. Still. 

"Hey Melissa," Tara's calling out to the group; the girl turns back again. "You seen Sasha around?"

"Not since yesterday. She was at Maggie's a few nights though, think they were talking out some fertilizer shit."

"Real heavy shit," one of the guys she's with intones, and starts laughing. It sounds strained, like he knows how pointless it is and he's hanging on anyway. "C'mon."

"Thanks," Tara says, raising a hand to them before looking at Abe. "Since _yesterday_?"

"Fuck, _I_ dunno," Abe replies. But he's looking worried, now, and Daryl hasn't seen Sasha either, so he asks.

"What's going on with her?"

"That's just it. Barely seen her all week. I mean, she was on that inventory thing, and I know she's been bouncing around between the storerooms-"

"-haven't laid eyes on her since I went past her rooms Thursday," Abe interrupts. "She was cussing up a storm, bitching about formatting. It's weird. She ain't checked in."

"Anything on comms?" Daryl pulls his comms unit out of his pocket.

"What, like you ever know her to wear them off hours? She barely wears them _on_ shift," Tara frowns. "Besides. Tried that already."

"You talk to Rick?"

"Not yet. Just realized it had been a few days this morning, when she wasn't at briefing."

They're drawing close enough to the strip now that Daryl can't help casting a glance around, looking for her, even though there's no reason to suspect that she's there. She's got to be _somewhere_ , though. It's weird. Before they get too close, he hooks the comms unit into his ear and hails Rick.

"Daryl, you hear the news?"

"Yeah, it's fucked up. Listen. You seen Sasha around?"

"Ah, no. I mean. She turned in the inventory on Friday. Claimed a ticket out on valve six this morning first thing. Flagged it complete a few hours ago. Why, what's going on?"

"Abe and Tara are looking for her," he says, not wanting to worry him. "That's all."

"All right, well. Check back in at the house when y'all get done. Think we're gonna need to put our heads together and it ain't lookin' like anyone's gonna be sleeping quick tonight anyway. Bring Abe and Tara with you."

"Will do," he says, taking his comms back out and stepping fast to catch up with them as they step onto the strip. "She had a job out by Admin earlier today, flagged it as complete. Rick ain't worried. Not about that, at least. Wants us over at Alexandria when we finish up."

Tara nods, but her attention's on the nearest feedscreen; it's had a crack along the right side of the screen since the night the Governor died, so only the first part of the message is readable.

_SS Ambition failed to make contact at Relay Point-_  
Resupply is presumed lost. Rationing expected. Cou-  
has issued a curfew order effective 18:00 through 0-  
and rationing is expected. Colony-wide briefing to be-  
tomorrow morning. Please stay calm and report any in-  
to AdSec immediately. 

"Fucking _hell_ ," Abe mutters, under his breath, looking back to both of them. "Either of you see shit like this before?"

Daryl shakes his head. 

"Once. About ten years back, they had to skip one. Something about a technical issue with the ship. But by the time they got the next one ready to go, we wound up with two shipments in a month, it was like Christmas or something."

She looks worried, but less so than Abe, and a whole lot less than Daryl's feeling. And maybe she knows it, because she's smiling at him, and rapping Abe in the arm. "Come on. They might be jacking up the prices, but look at this place. It's a ghost town here, they're just going to wind up composting everything. We can talk them down."

\--- 

Kelly Huang looks from one of them to the next in sequence, like she's trying to figure out if they're just in shock, or just haven't heard. But she makes no comment as she runs their credits and nudges her nervously loitering cooks into action. It's only a few minutes before she's calling their orders up, but she's already packed everything to go, without even charging them the deposit on the returnable containers. 

Nobody says anything about it, but it's a direct suggestion and Daryl's a little relieved that _someone_ is making it, even in so roundabout a fashion. Because the strip's a ghost town, quiet enough that they can hear the shouting all the way from the 'culturalist enclave, out past the commons and clear on the other side of the fields.

Wordlessly, because Daryl's not the only one trying to listen for signs that they're not leaving the calm before the storm, Abe leads the two of them back to Alexandria. 

They almost make it.


	12. Chapter 12

_Monday, 05/05/2194, 16:38_

Ahead of them, there's movement. It's just dark enough now, this far out from the strip, that it's almost hard to see at first, but it's apparent. There's a troop of AdSec or Saviors- a dozen or so- marching towards the rapidly dimming lights of Alexandria. 

"Daryl, maybe we should slow down."

"Those fucks are-"

"I know. That's _why_ ," Abe says. 

"We don't even know what it is," Tara reasons. "I mean, I know it's not good, but if it's _bad_ , they might need our help."

"Which will be a lot more useful if we know what's going on before we barge back in there."

Daryl hesitates, but Abe's still walking- if a bit more cautiously- so he doesn't argue. This, what they're doing right here, has just started an awful lot like turning the corner on some Earthside street to find four cruisers parked in front of the house, lights on, sirens off. 

"Look," he says, once he realizes what he's seeing. The Saviors are heading right past Alexandria, not even slowing down. 

They're heading for OT. 

And suddenly, he sees why. There's a group coming out to meet them, and they're showing no signs of slowing down or diverting their course, and even from here, still fifty meters away, he can see how badly it's going to end up.

Abe's forehead is creased with something more than confusion. It's anger. " _Damn_ it," he mutters, under his breath. "What the fuck are they doing?"

It's hard to tell which side's got him worried. Right now, Daryl figures, Abe's neighbors in OT look like they're setting up for some sort of march. Or would be, if they weren't being surrounded, and Abe's starting to pick up his pace.

"We should go up to the house," Tara says, though neither she nor Daryl are lagging behind. "See if Alexandria knows anything."

"Think I know all I've got to," Abe says. 

Looking over to his left, Daryl notices, for the first time, the large number of 'culturalists standing out in their yard. They're not making any moves to get closer, though. He looks back to the Techniki enclave in time to see that the Saviors have cleared the front side of the house and are disappearing into the warren of sheds and workbenches of the yard, probably heading towards the chow line. As soon as they're out of sight, the front door of Alexandria opens and empties about a dozen people, all of whom are running. 

One of the runners, he's pretty sure, is Enid. And there's Carl, right behind her, carrying Judith. They're heading for the farms, but Rick and Michonne don't seem to be with them. 

It's better, he decides, if the Saviors happen to see the three of them coming up the way than looking back to see the kids running away. But that's all he's got, and it's not translating into any sort of plan. 

And now that they're drawing closer, he can hear it. Negan's voice, booming above the crowd, asking them just what the fuck it is that they think they're fucking doing. 

The three of them are almost up to the house now, close enough that even with all the interior lights being shut off, he can make out everyone who's watching from the windows, from the roof. But they're not moving in. 

Most of them aren't, anyway. Eric and Glenn, they're coming around from the front and making their way hesitantly into the workyard between Alexandria and OT. 

"Curfew isn't for another hour," someone's shouting; Daryl can't see, it's coming from around the HVAC shed- and he doesn't recognize the voice. It's clear that Tara and Abe do, though, because they both break into a slow run. One of them- Abe, he thinks- drops his food container on the way. 

They're too close, now, for any of the noise to make any sense; by the time he catches up to Tara and Abe, rounds the corner past the lathe shed and looks into the clearing over by the chow line, there's not much of a clearing at all. Too many people, surging too quickly. Waves crashing violently into each other and fucking _Abe_ , he's showing no signs of slowing down. 

He's grabbing one of the Saviors by the shoulders and throwing him to the ground; it's not until she's down that Daryl can even see Ben- Tara's neighbor over in OT, staggering back to his feet and jumping after the Savior as if Abe's attempt had been an unwelcome distraction. 

He only makes it about three feet before a blast crackles through the air. He's close enough to the edge of the fight that it's easy to get to him- Daryl tosses his own dinner aside as he rushes in, dragging him to his feet, too angry at everything to be relieved, yet, that the blaster hadn't been set to anything lethal, before hauling him back towards Alexandria.

"What the fuck?" he manages to get out, but Ben's not hearing or maybe just not listening; the kid's trying to shake his grip loose as behind them, three more cracks cut underneath the noise.

"Lemme-"

" _Nuh_ -uh, Daryl grunts; shoving him back towards Alexandria. He's lost sight of Abe, but Tara's heading for the two of them, eyes wide as she nods up to her left. 

Michonne's striding towards them, though her eyes are on the fight, and she doesn't look at them when she tells them to get inside, _now_ , but she doesn't follow them, either. 

Out front, Rick's talking with Bob and Ed, gesturing up at the second floor when he sees them coming. 

"Get him inside and hide him," he tells them, glancing over their shoulders and stalking past them. "At least for now. _Glenn_!" 

Glancing back as Tara gets the door open, he can see that Glenn and Able have joined forces, dragging someone between them who's moving too slowly to make it on their own. It's Eric, Daryl realizes, as they all pile into the crowded entryway. Aaron's already shoving through the crowd, looking furious as he relieves Glenn of his half of the burden, biting something at Eric that Daryl can't make out. 

For a second, the noise from outside seems to abate, but he thinks it might just be moving off. Moving on, towards OT. 

Ben's recovered enough that he's moving under his own steam, so Daryl lets him go and turns back towards the door, no plan in mind beyond getting back outside, but Michonne's blocking his path. 

"We need to set a diversion," she tells him. "Rick's heading for the catwalk-"

"The fuck's he gonna do-"

"Reroute the water, send it back down the line."

"What good's that gonna do?"

"None at all, if someone doesn't get out and make sure sensor 17 is offline." 

That's right outside the AdSec briefing hall. He nods, getting her meaning. "I'm on it."

"Cut through the commons, stay off the paths," she says, edging past him towards the stairs. "Soon as you've got it done, get on comms to Aaron. As him if he wants anything from the strip. Stay low, take the perimeter back if you have to."

He nods, already heading out the door, trying not to look too hard at the all-out brawl that's taking place. He gives it until he's reached the commons before breaking into a run. Only makes it about thirty meters before he starts feeing it in his shoulders, and gives it another twenty or so before he slows down enough to not draw any more attention than he probably already has. 

Glancing up ahead, he can see some people gathered on the strip, and a SciMed cart hauling someone off. There's also a group of AdSec marching towards him, helmets down. But they've got their orders, and they're heading for the fight, not stopping for the likes of him. 

Finally, he's cutting behind the row of shops and stands, glancing up the alleys to try to get a read on anything that might be happening there, but all he sees is a few more AdSec, stationed in their positions. Another SciMed cart goes by- this time, it's carrying two, maybe three people, in 'culturalist green. They haven't even started getting any Techniki hauled over, yet. 

If it was darker, he could cut across the alley, cut a minute or two off his trip, but it's not worth it. His lungs feel raw, and the throbbing in his shoulder is radiating down into his wrist. 

He makes it down to the end of the strip before cutting across, slowly now; it's close enough to curfew that he knows he's running the risk of being noticed heading the wrong direction, but he's too close. Decides that, should anyone stop him, he'll tell them that he's running to AdSec dispatch to get help. But nobody stops him. 

It's not until he reaches AdSec that he realizes what the problem's going to be. It's completely locked down, with guards posted underneath the cameras. But Clarice is heading towards them, looking like she's got something on her mind, and the sight of her- perhaps not so surprisingly- is enough that the AdSec are getting something in their heads, too. 

They don't notice him slip past around the side of the building and down to the perimeter path. Nobody stops him, and less than half a minute later, he's standing underneath support strut 17. 

Taking his multitool out of his pocket, he makes quick work of the three screws holding the control box shut, and gets to the sensor array panel easily enough. It takes him a minute to get a read on the wires, because the light here's just dim enough that telling the difference between light green and light gray is nearly impossible. Forcing himself to focus, he manages to find the right wire, and tugs it, just barely, loosening it from its connection clip.

It'll only take a minute or so to fix. It'll take the better part of an hour to even diagnose and trigger a work order alert. But more importantly, it'll kill the sensor monitoring the flow of water into the AdSec bathhouse, and within a few minutes- as soon as Rick's rerouted the main- the dodgy pipe join in the ceiling over the washing machines will start to leaking. 

He screws the panel back into place, drops his multitool back into his pocket, and slides away from the control box, keeping his strides casual until he's made it back to the strip, where he gets on comms and, per Michonne's orders, radios Aaron.

"Hey man, I'm just by the strip. You want anything?"

"Already ate enough for a week," Aaron confirms. "Alfredo night, you know? It's the best thing going."

Rolling his eyes, Daryl taps off comms and keeps to the perimeter path, maintaining a slow, steady pace only because he has to, and not breaking off until he's safely behind SciMed. By then, he figures, the water's had five minutes to start building up. 

Rick, he realizes, must've opened it up completely though, because already, he can see a mass exodus coming from the direction of OT. They're bitching up a storm, Simon's voice taking on most of the talking as he browbeats the Techniki they've got with them, telling them they need to get the fuck _on_ it. 

Daryl scans the group only long enough to try identifying who's there. The four Techniki are all OT, but they're playing it smart. Not resisting, at least so far as he can tell from here.

"I left my tools behind," one of them is saying, "and we don't even have a read on-"

"We can go back for them once we know what we're looking at," the lone woman in the group says. "You don't even know what you _need_ , yet."

This, apparently, is the wise thing to say, because a few of the Saviors are laughing. 

And if they're laughing- with the exception of Negan, who's usually at his worst when he's doing it- then they're not attacking. 

It's better than the alternative. Even if it does feel like they've just sacrificed four of their players. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/05/2194, 17:58_

By the time he makes it back, most everyone's broken off. A few are limping back towards OT, but Bob, Glenn and Monte seem to be running the show; they seem to have it under control. 

Rick's waiting for him in the front yard, though, looking worried. 

"This is gonna come back on us."

Daryl shrugs. They could've made a dozen different plays, but none of them were ever going to be more than a momentary distraction. 

"Everyone okay? Our people?"

"A few shocks, some bumps and bruises. OT bore the brunt of it." He looks exhausted. Disgusted. "Tamara got blasted, pretty hard- by _Chad_. Finally got her in a cart to SciMed just before you got here."

Daryl nods. 

"How'd it get started?"

Rick sighs, and rubs a hand over his face, combing out his beard with his fingers. "Carter. Started riling everyone up on the chow lines." He shakes his head, then looks at him. "Curfew's falling. Let's go inside. Need to talk to everybody." 

\--- 

In the end, Daryl decides, it doesn't matter what had started it. 

At least now he knows why the whole damned colony'd seemed to be holding its collective breath all damned weekend. Not that it's balancing out the _why_ , not one fucking bit. 

The resupply ship might still be moving, gravity being what it is, even in the jump-lanes. But it ain't moving here. It's never going to arrive. Either it's dead and drifting, or its pieces are moving out in all different directions, scattered, destroyed, and useless.

As far as they know, nothing else is coming. The SA have taken control of the launch sites; the announcement's looping silently on the feedscreen in the corner. There's nobody Earthside coordinating a rescue or resupply mission. They're on their own. 

It doesn't take much to guess what started the fighting, but Glenn, standing in the closest thing this house has to a living room, which is packed about three times more densely than usual, what with all the OT residents standing around, is explaining it anyway.

"Shit was already going down over in Ag, but Carter was out on the chow line, getting everyone riled up. Bob says he was talking about how they needed to march over to Admin and take over the plaza, tell them OT wasn't going to stand for it."

"He wanted a unified front standing behind the 'culturalists," Eric says, leaning against Aaron on the couch and holding a cold pack over his knee. "They were over there, trying to shanghai a bunch of field workers into coming over and working for them."

Rick nods. "And word got out, what he was talking about, so the Saviors came to shut it down. I caught it on the radio, called everyone back in. OT was offline, though. Most of them were already gathering out in the yard, and those that were on comms were too pissed off to listen. Schauer, you know him? He even said that it was their turn."

"That's fatalistic," Tara scoffs. 

It's suicidal, is what it is. Or close enough to it, Daryl figures, finding a spot on the wall to lean against. 

Eric and Aaron are shifting on the couch so Eric can stretch his leg out; Aaron's got his arm over his shoulder but there's an angry scowl crossing his face now that Eric ain't lookin' at him. 

There's a knock on the door, and Monte disappears, returning a moment later with Maggie in tow, looking only slightly less worried when she glances around the room to find Glenn standing by the window. 

"Should get a watch on," she says. 

Michonne's edging closer to Rick, pressing against her and giving her room to move past. "You see anyone out there?"

"Not yet. Curfew's on." She pauses, hugging Glenn. "I'm guessing they're going to be busy for a while yet, but you know how it is." To Rick, she adds, "Beth and Dad are getting the kids calmed down and settled in. Carl's pissed off, but he and Judith are fine. Figured on all of 'em staying over tonight."

"Thanks," Rick says, losing a little bit of the manic energy that Daryl hadn't even noticed he'd been carrying until it's gone. He's standing up a little straighter. "All right. Susie? Bob?" They look over at him from opposite ends of the room; Bob, Daryl notices, looks to either be drunk already, or shaking off some shock. "You guys are on watch. The rest of us, we'll make room for everyone here. Make sure everyone's accounted for. I'll head over in the morning see what Admin's got in store; I know they've got a meeting planned first thing, so the briefing's going to be late. We'll go from there."

"I'll get on comms to OT," Michonne offers.

"I'm good to go for watch, if you want," Abe's voice says, from the stairs. He's got a bruise on his jaw, but apart from that seems uninjured as he looks at Bob. "Ain't gonna sleep much tonight anyhow."

"Thanks," Bob and Rick both say. For a few seconds afterwards, everyone is quiet. But there's a murmuring coming from the middle of the room. It's Carly, from OT, her blonde hair falling out of her usual braids. 

"Anyone see Sasha?"

Around the room, Daryl can see everyone looking at everyone else, and for a minute he thinks that Sasha's going to pop up right there in the middle of everyone, but she doesn't. 

"Could've gone back," Glenn offers. 

"I didn't see her out there," Aaron says. 

"Then she's probably laying low," Abe says, though he looks concerned. The two of them bein' tighter than most, it's actually a little concerning. "I mean, if she got wind of what was going down. She's smart."

"I'll check on it," Michonne says. "But we need a head count."

"Things are going to be tight tonight, so everyone, you're doubling or tripling up."

"I'm crashing out up top," Daryl offers, not really figuring that it needs to be said, but it serves his purpose well enough as far as letting them know that he's leaving goes. 

"I'm gonna head over to SciMed," Tara says.

"The curfew-"

"I'll be careful," she tells Rick, then snorts. "Besides. I've stayed over here. Y'all need to clean your floors."

That gets a few scattered laughs. And for the moment, at least, it seems to be enough. Seems to be _something_ at least. 

As long as nobody looks outside to see the mess the Saviors had made of the yard. Because it's there, like a point being made, but it doesn't feel _finished_. Not by a long shot.


	13. Chapter 13

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 10:00_

The enclave heads have all been informed, but tomorrow's Admin's first interdepartmental meeting regarding the implementation of his team's recommendations. Between the bruised egos of the department heads and managers that _weren't_ selected for the project, the Council already chipping away at the plan to suit their own needs, and the rioting breaking out last night and setting everyone even _more_ on edge, it's going to be a nightmare. Or something like it, at least. Nightmares are for people who actually manage to sleep, and he doesn't think he's caught more than an hour or two a night for the past week. 

"You know," Dale tells him, catching him staring at the same Dockside systems access log screen for five minutes straight. "You've got some leave left, right? Or, you know. Sick time?"

"I'm fine." He is. Just. Something's not adding up, he just needs to-

"You look like hell," Marlene points out. "And it's not like we don't already know what everyone's going to be asking about tomorrow. You should go take a nap or something. We've got this."

"Can't sleep."

"Then go wear yourself out at the gym and try again, and come back later when your brain comes back online."

He nods, though he's already tried that enough to appreciate the fact that if it's four in the morning, nobody's awake to see you get your ass kicked by a punching bag. 

"Fine," he says, glancing again at the screen that he's already forgotten about. She's got a point. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 10:48_

He'd managed to lay down, close his eyes. He'd even managed, he's pretty sure, to start drifting off, but his wandering mind had started shouting at him. 

The access logs. 

The Council's already making plans for the diplomatic mission back to Earth- he knows this, because half of his team's been working on it. And Deanna had sent him a message telling him to be ready to answer questions about the Sagan RV's capabilities at tomorrow's meeting, so it's obvious that they're preparing to release the information tomorrow. 

Which means that so far, the only ID's showing up on the access log for the Dockside files should be from his team, or, on occasion, from the workers Connor's brought in to help with the labor. Since those had required Paul's code in order to be transmitted, clearance levels being what they are, Paul knows about every single point of access. He'd had to sign off on less than half a dozen of them; for the most part, all of the ID's in the access logs are for his own team. 

So the issue hadn't been there. And it hadn't, obviously, been in any of the retrievals coming from the Chambers, Council offices, or their personal tablets. Nearly all of them have accessed at least one or two files outside of the main report, and the system's recorded their both their personal and device ID's. And all of those have been checking out. 

All except for one. Down, buried back in the files that the team hasn't had to bother with for weeks now, so small inconsequential that he'd probably scanned past it half a dozen times, is the device ADS-7L58992.

ADS, not ADM. Ad _Sec_. He has to pull up the network view to find out what or where the device _is_. And even with his suspicions being as strong as they are, it's still startling to find out that the computer it's tied to sits in the office attached to the AdSec briefing hall. 

He turns his attention back to the personal ID, half expecting Negan's picture to show up on the screen once he links through to the profile, but it's not. 

It's Spencer's. 

He's been pulling info on the launch sites, several weeks after they'd been rendered moot. According to this, yesterday, he'd pulled up the Sagan's schematics, as well as Dale's timeline for the repairs. 

None of this would mean anything at all, if he'd done it from inside the Admin enclave. But he'd been in AdSec.

He takes a breath, tries to think. It could be nothing. Spencer's on the Security Oversight Committee. He's been going over there. Maybe he'd just borrowed their computer- Paul's done that himself over in SciMed, when his tablet's battery'd died during a meeting. It's not damning. It's not _evidence_. 

But it's not email or basic functions that Spencer's been accessing, it's classified documents, and it's a problem. 

\--- 

It takes him a solid five minutes to calm down enough to get on comms. He's not sure that his assumptions are even correct. And if he's going to convince Deanna that her spawn needs to be put in check- or at least be politely reminded of proper information security protocols- he needs to go about it carefully. But just as he's bringing her name up on the list of contacts, Heath's personal ID pops up on comms. 

"Whatever you said to your buddy Spencer, man, it didn't work. Just got done with the shift briefing. Councilman Monroe made it clear- like, _explicit_ , this time- that he expects us all to maintain a unified front. Only, I can't remember how he put it, exactly, but he basically said that with the resupply ship getting lost we need to be ready to put down more riots. So we're all supposed to back Negan's team up, since they're the ones with the best records handling violent incidents."

"Only because they're _starting_ them."

"Still, _that_ just means they've had more practice," Heath replies glumly. "Monroe just gave that asshole command of a whole army, and he doesn't even see it yet."

"Have you guys been seeing any uptick yet?"

"Me, no, but I'm over on the docks today, working with my brand new Negan-supplied trainee, and nothing's going to be going down here." He snorts derisively. "Still on the system, though, and it ain't pretty. They've already been through Ag, and they're regrouping to hit the Techniki enclave next."

Paul's looking through SVIORS, but there's nothing there. "Nothing's being logged."

"Check the SciMed intake log."

It takes him a few moments, but he manages it. They've already treated seven people for injuries, none of them flagged as being work-related, and it's only eleven in the morning. Most of them are blaster hits, a few cuts and concussions. One person's merely listed as critical, their reporting incomplete, and one man is dead. 

"Shit."

"Exactly."

An idea occurs to him. A bad one. "You have anyone you trust out there?"

"If I did, the whole _trust_ thing would be kind of an issue right now. They mostly drew from Lee's crew, and got a few other greenhorns to boot. You got something in mind?"

Nothing that isn't completely futile or stupid.

Deanna's going to have to wait- or maybe be left out of it completely. Even if Spencer's planning on hijacking the Sagan to turn tail and run, it's not launch ready. It won't happen today. 

Not that anyone's plans are going to amount to anything at all if Negan tears the colony apart first. 

"I do." 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 12:48_ : 

There'd been a brief few minutes this morning where routine had asserted itself, just long enough for Daryl to be startled by the sight of the back yard. It was a mess, tools scattered everywhere, worktables shoved over, dust kicked up all over everything. But the chow lines had opened, the kids had gone to school, and the morning briefing had gotten started almost right on schedule. 

Almost. There'd been just enough time for everyone to check in, find out who'd gotten hurt and who hadn't. Tara'd had most of the info, direct from her doctor girlfriend. Rodney Donovan, once of the 'culturalists, his heart had given out, he hadn't even made it to SciMed. Tamara was probably going to make it, though she hadn't woken up yet. 

Conversation had stalled out, after that, but it had only been another two or three minutes before Rick had shown up. 

Before he'd even reached the front of the room, he'd started relaying what information that Admin had seen fit to share, not that there'd been much. All Admin's got is some harebrained plan to to slap a hyperdrive onto a research vessel so someone can try to go back to Earth for help. Other than that, it's just requests. _Be mindful of your resource use. Report any unusual activity to AdSec. Please stay calm_. 

Abe and Glenn had had some shit to say about that, but they'd been preaching to the choir, for the most part, and Rick hadn't been looking to open it up for discussion, just waited them out before moving on. Depending on how the soil testing goes over in Ag, they need to start surveying land to expand the fields. And the membrane transformer boxes are due for inspection. They got shit to do. 

The way Daryl sees it, help's coming, or it ain't, but _counting_ on it's just stupid. As far as actually making some sort of plan to keep this place still running, it's down to Rick, Hershel and Maggie coming up with everything, same as always. 

\--- 

Yesterday, they'd only had two patrols covering everything south of the Admin enclave. Now they've got four; he's been watching them wandering around the strip and the commons all day. Most of them are guys Daryl's never seen before, at least not without their helmets on, though some of them are still keeping it all official enough to keep wearing them. 

Finishing up behind SciMed, he flags the last of the transformer box inspections as completed and heads back, content to avoid them if he can. As soon as he's grabbed something in the chow line, he'll stop over to see if Eric and Aaron have figured out how they want to start securing some of the off-the-books rooms in the house. 

It's starting to feel like that's the sort of thing that would be a good idea. 

Or maybe it's too late for that. 

Back at the house, he's coming up the front steps when he hears shouting from inside, and before he can even process it, the door's being opened and Tara, Michonne, and Eric are being forced out at gunpoint. It's only a second before he's rounded up, right there with them, by three Saviors- or, two Saviors and one AdSec, though they're _all_ Saviors now, even if they're still wearing their standard issue. 

"Get moving," one of them, visor down over his helmet, growls at them; he sounds young, but not so much that he's playing any sort of game. "Out back. The man's got somethin' to say to all of you."

At this exact moment, Daryl's thinking, they outnumber the three Saviors. 

But it's the blasters in their hands that matter, he realizes, keeping in step with Michonne as they're marched around the side. Rick's there, along with Abe, Glenn and Maggie. Ed's here, along with Milo, that Nazi fuckhead from OT who can't weld for _shit_. 'Sides them, there's a dozen or so others, not all from Alexandria. But he doesn't need to start looking around to see who all's here and who ain't, in case they notice him looking and decide to go start searching for stragglers. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes front, watching as Negan stands up from one of the bamboo worktables next to the tool shed. 

"All right folks, gather round," Negan calls, addressing the crowd with bared teeth as his lackeys fall in behind him, blasters up and ready. "This is gonna be hard to hear, and easy to deal with. Governor Jefferson's dead. The Ambition was destroyed in the vacuum of space. Shit changes, but life goes on. And right now, we're all at a happy little fork in the road. Y'all got two choices. You can keep acting up like scared children, or you can get your shit together and get your godforsaken asses in line."

He's pacing as he talks, eyes roaming over the crowd. At Rick, he stops. 

"You have your morning briefing yet?"

"Yeah."

Negan nods, his eyes roaming the crowd over past Rick's shoulder. "Then you've all heard. We've all gotta keep shit on the level, and not fucking panic. Ain't that right, Rick?"

"Yeah."

"Don't be like that," Negan grins. "It's _one little_ shipment. But you know how it is; Earth's already planning the next one. Soon as they know they lost the Ambition- and ain't that just a lovely fucking turn of phrase- they'll scramble to get the next ship off the ground. It probably won't even be seven months before that baby lands." He steps back to address the group as a whole again, gesturing grandly as his Saviors. "And _we'll_ all be there, ready to receive and distribute, same as fucking always. The only thing is, me and _my_ guys can't be running around, chasing after your asses because you're stealing resources, starting riots and shit."

Rick, apparently, has hit his limit as far as meek agreement goes; he raises his head and looks at him. "We'll ease up when you do."

"Oh _really_?" Negan laughs, shaking his head as he looks back at his men; there are at least a dozen of them. Outnumbered, if not for the blasters. "One, it's cute that you think that you're in any fucking position to negotiate terms. And two, you're being stupider than I would've expected of you, Rick."

Daryl tries not to cringe when Rick says, "How's that?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? You _do_ realize that they've declared a state of emergency, right? Hell, we're only fucking even out here because of our orders. We've got their backing, and they want us here. And if we're all the way out here, there ain't nobody keeping an eye on whatever shit's going down in the Enclave."

"Nothing ever happens over there."

"Rick, Rick," Negan sighs. " _All_ the shit happens over there. You think the assholes who aren't trying to figure out how to work this to their advantage aren't looking to _take_ advantage? They already have the docks. They can lock down each and every one of our resources with the press of a button."

"They can't _fix_ anything, they can't _grow anything_." Rick's got a point. If anyone's going to survive, they're going to need all hands on deck.

"And their plan reflects that. Oh, wait. No, it doesn't. They've got recommendations on how we're all gonna hold hands and sing Kum-by-fucking-ya, but did you notice the only immediate resource requisition that's been announced? Yeah. AdSec. All on account of their expecting you to act like terrified little children. Which positions us, quite frankly, on top of mount ice cream, and leaves you sorry bastards begging for scraps."

"So what is it that you _want_ , then?"

"Me? I want a real, honest-to-god _beer_ , and for you not to get in the way. Outside of that?" He looks up to address the rest of the group, "If any of you have any sort of balls at all, I want 'em." Rick gives him a skeptical glare, but doesn't interrupt. "What I'm proposing is a nice little deal for all of us. You guys chip in, help us keep Admin from overreaching, we'll make sure you and your are taken care of."

"Why don't you head over to SciMed," Abe calls out. "See if you managed to bash anyone's heads in enough to go along with that line of horse shit."

A wave goes through the men standing behind Negan as they ready their blasters, but Negan's calm as he walks over to stand face to face with him. "You sayin' you want for this to go down the hard way? 'Cause that, we can do. I figured we'd try the carrot instead of the stick, first, but hey, I'm adaptable."

Abe just shakes his head in disbelief, but holds his tongue. 

"Just one thing I need to know before we think about it," Rick decides, drawing Negan's attention, but he's not looking at him, he's looking straight ahead, at Chad, who's standing in formation. "What'd you do to him?"

"He didn't do shit," Chad steps forward. Just told me a few things that made a hell of a lot of sense. Made me see the error of my ways." Realizing that he'd spoken out or turn, he glances over at Negan questioningly. But Negan only bows, waves for him to continue. 

"Look, Rick. This ain't personal, or anything. But shit's going down, Admin's gonna look out for their own. I'm just doin' the same thing." 

Daryl snorts. He'd _heard_ about Chad's attempt at that last night, when he'd blasted Tamara in the back with enough voltage that it had apparently taken ten minutes for anyone to get her stable enough to make the trip out to SciMed. If their ambulance carts hadn't already been hauling people over from the 'culturalists quadrant, they might've had a shot at getting her in soon enough that she'd have woken up by now. 

"You're shooting your own people," Michonne mutters. "Forgive us if we're not seeing it the same as you."

"Well, there you have it, seein' as how you're all lookin' to throw the carrot out the airlock," Negan heaves a sigh, dropping the grin off his face like he's genuinely disappointed. "Let's really _dig_ down after that stick, shall we?" A few of the Saviors step forward. 

It's Ed- Carol's asshole ex-husband, the whole reason she'd stowed away back to Earth six months ago- who steps forward first, hands raised, saying, "Fuck these idiots, I ain't gonna sit back to wait to get screwed by Admin, and _sure_ as hell ain't lookin' to get blasted on the account of someone's _else's_ sore asshole."

Behind him, Daryl can hear people shuffling their feet; a few actually move through to the front of the crowd to join Ed. One of them's Milo, and absurdly, when Daryl catches Dwight rolling his eyes, he almost wants to laugh. Part of him's thinking, _good riddance_ , but the last thing fucks like them and Ed need is a blaster in their hands. 

"Excellent," Negan says, clearly having no such qualms. He'd probably been counting on them. "I'm glad to say, you'll be in excellent company," he says, clapping Ed on the back before turning back to address them all. "Your friend Sasha's _just_ finishing her training."

That's just sitting wrong as _hell_. Sasha's good people, and she's not a coward. Odds were, if she'd really gone over, she'd gone down hard. And right now, Abe's starting to look murderous; though it's an expression that's spreading quickly through this side of the line that Negan's just drawn in the dirt. But right now, so far, everyone's holding steady.

"I'm just gonna ask one more time," Negan says, putting his back to Abe. He's either blowing him off or simply goading him as he begins to walk down the front of the group. "Anyone's interested in helping us maintain peaceful relations, now's the time to step up, and we'll be on our way."

"Best you get goin', then," Rick says. "Wouldn't want to keep you, I'm sure you and your men have places to be."

"I appreciate that, Rick, I really do. Your bein' a team player and - oh. _Wait._ That there was sarcasm, wasn't it? Which makes me think that maybe you ain't _really_ all that willing to play ball." Negan rocks turns to look back at Rick, but before Daryl can decide whether it's a threat or not, he continues, saying, "Which is why I'm thinking that right now, my best route is to steal one of your heavy hitters." 

Abe's looking like he's getting ready to make a jack move, but Negan's swiveling his head, his eyes finding Daryl's unerringly. "So, congratulations, Dixon, you just got drafted."

"Fuck off." He takes a few steps, knowing he's fucking up, but at least he's smart enough to edge to the side, put a little distance between him and the others. Negan's already holding a hand out to Dwight, taking his blaster off of him. 

"Fuck you," Negan tells him, cheerfully, as Daryl clenches his jaw shut; he'll bite his tongue when the blast comes, otherwise. "See, I know your brother was the MVP, and you're just moping around in his shadow, striking the fuck out, but this is _all you_ now. You come with us, you've got half a chance in hell hitting it right out of the park. You'll toe your line, your people will toe theirs, and we'll all make it to the playoffs, no problem." 

"Ain't interested." He risks another step away from the group- no need to get Abe caught in the crossfire- but Negan only smirks, twitches two fingers of his free hand. 

The moment the Saviors step forward, a surge goes through the crowd. Abe and Glenn are still trying to get close, like they're gonna- 

The shock jolts through his shoulder, up through his teeth; he thinks one of them cracks but every muscle on his left side is tensing too tight to focus in the wake of the blast, and then there are hands on his arms, shoving him down, others trying to pull him back. 

"On your goddamned knees, _all_ of you!" someone shouts. 

His knees are grinding against dusty hard rock- he's surprised to notice it, at first, and then he realizes that he's still conscious. He's not even stunned, but it feels like everyone's staring at him, and if he was quicker about it, he'd be pretending he was down for the count already. Maybe they'd fuck off. Maybe they'd just _drag_ him off, do to him whatever they did to Chad. 

Maybe he could just play along, it occurs to him. Play Negan until he can figure what the hell's going on with Sasha. Fuck shit up from the inside, somehow. 

Instead, he accidentally meets Michonne's wide, angry eyes, and he's shaking his head. 

He's okay, he's trying to tell her. _Shouldn't_ be, but he's fine. 

And then he glances up just in time to see Negan firing on him again. 

This time, nothing happens. 

At least not at first. Glenn moves first, springing up and lunging forward, only to get blasted back by at least two shots; he's going down; Rick's scrambling towards him, and Abe's got his knee under him like he's about to move, but Dwight's already on him, shoving him back. 

"Sit the fuck _down_ , assholes!"

The Saviors have moved forward, their blasters roaming the crowd, settling onto new targets. Behind them, Negan's frowning, shaking his head and tucking the dead blaster into the belt of his uniform. 

"All this baseball talk was making me twitchy," he says, heading for the worktable. His back's to them, and Daryl can't see what he's reaching for. "But _now_ I'm seein' the value in it."

He turns, and he's got-

_Fuck._

He's walking back towards him. It's hard to tear his eyes away off the wrench he's got in his hand now, but he tries to shoot a warning look in Rick's direction. They need to stay cool, they _all_ need to-

-there's hard metal being pressed to the side of his face, shoving against his chin, and under it, until he's forced to look up.

"You know, this is turning into a _bitch_ of a goddamned disappointment. Would've figured you'd've had more sense than Merle. He would've acted out, same's you. But he would've gotten the point, straight away, you know?"

The head of the wrench sways away, just enough that he could maybe try something, only he's fucking _frozen_ here. Out of ideas besides staring back at him. 

"So I'll spell it out for you all." This time, the wrench his being pressed into his sternum. "There's working with us..." He's starting to be shoved off-balance. "And even if you can't wrap your stupid fucking little heads around that basic fucking concept, there's _obeying_ us." Suddenly, the pressure's gone; he rocks back forward, catching himself on his hands. "But this whole _rebellion_ thing you're all trying at?" Negan's adjusting his grip, holding it like a baseball bat. "It ain't gonna fly."

Negan's raising the wrench up, now, but Daryl's eyes are already closed. He's aware of the shouting- it's been going on this whole time, but it's been in the background. Now that he's trying to focus on it, now that he's tryin' to search out Michonne's voice, or Rick's, he can't find them. 

He falls to the side suddenly, feet tripping over him and he opens his eyes, tries to catch himself as someone stumbles over him. 

The _crack_ of impact is the first sound that makes sense, but it doesn't land on him. Shoving up, he's expecting more resistance than he finds, but the hands have been off of him for a while and the person who tripped-

- _no_.

Abe's on his knees, practically right on top of him, and he's weaving, a bit, looking dazed as he shoves his middle finger up at Negan. 

"Suck my nuts."

He doesn't even try to evade the next blow when it comes. He's the only one. 

Daryl thinks that maybe the blaster had actually done its job- his muscles are suddenly coiled so fucking tight that he can't move. Can't even look away from the sight of it, the _sound_ of it. Abe's a solid weight against his side, and he's-

-everything is silent, right up until the screaming starts. Daryl doesn't know where it's coming from but Rick's scrambling to his feet- Michonne, he thinks, might be the one grabbing him but he can't tell from here. And behind them both, he thinks he sees Glenn's feet moving, trying to get purchase against the ground, but it's Rick that Negan and Simon are reaching for, wresting them free from Maggie, who's getting shoved back. 

The Saviors drag Rick to his feet and shove him around until he's facing the rest of them; behind Rick, Negan's grinning, shaking his head. 

"Suck my nuts," he laughs, slinging his arm around Rick's shoulders, leaning into him and steering him forward. "Man, am _I_ ever embarrassed. Could've used the likes of him." Shaking his head, his gaze traveling from person to person; it's suffocating when it lands on him. "And only one outside job away from breaking the record, is that right, Rick?" 

Rick's eyes are wide, shocked as everyone else's probably are. He'd been close enough to -

He's got Abe's blood spattered on the side of his face. When Negan jerks him, trying to get his attention, tearing his eyes away from the- 

-away from Abe.

"Riiick? I _said_ , is that _right?_ "

Rick's nodding, then, but it's slow, disconnected, and his voice is quiet. Shaky. "Yeah. I. I think so."

"Thing is. These are your fucking people. Meaning, they're you're responsibility. You need to pay attention to them. Wouldn't want anyone running around after curfew, say... sabotaging shit on your watch, right?" 

Negan knows. Of _course_ he does. He's just been _fucking_ with them and-

-Daryl can't breathe. Can't move, but at least it keeps him from looking up. Confirming something that'll get him done like Abe'd gotten done.

Negan's shoving Rick to the side, gesturing at his men; all Daryl can see of this is feet stumbling out of his field of vision. "Simon, Tank, make sure Grimes fucking watches this time. Ain't got all day for this teachable moment bullshit."

Negan grinds his feet into the dirt, like he's trying to scrape Abe's blood and brains off of his boot. And then- it's inevitable, but it still feels like a punch when it happens- he turns, and looks right at Daryl. 

The grin's left his face; the wrench he's holding- Daryl forgets not to look at it, it's gory and _wrong_ \- never stops moving, just swings from Negan's grip, almost like he's forgotten about it as he takes half a step back. 

Only it's clear that he hasn't. 

He's just lining up his shot. 

And he's starting to swing.


	14. Chapter 14

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 13:20_

Paul reaches the Techniki enclave's workyard, easing up alongside one of the sheds and catching his breath as quietly as he can. For a moment, he just listens. Then, hefting the blaster he'd stolen using Heath's armory code, feeling the weight of it in his hand, trying to balance his grip, he peers around the side of the shed. 

The Saviors are scattered throughout the yard, their backs to him as they keep an oppressive watch on the Techniki, huddled together, kneeling on the ground expect for Grimes, who looks shocked- like it's only his body that's there. Negan's got a wrench in his hand; Paul can't hear him over the blood pounding in his ears, but he can see their terror, loud and clear.

Ducking back out of sight when he sees one of the Saviors move, he holds his breath, sure that he'd been too slow. But no one comes. It takes him a minute to get the nerve to try again. Steadying himself, he crouches down to peer around the corner, just in time to see Negan heft and swing the wrench down. 

Just in time to hear a wet, cracking thud as it connects with someone's skull, and then again as it breaks _through_ it. 

Just in time to watch a bloodied mess fall over to the side, lifeless and gory. 

Not in time to stop any of it. 

\--- 

Paul slides down along the wall, not sure if he's trying to sit or trying to curl up and hide, but the screams and cries are finding him easily enough. He needs to get his mind back in gear, tries to make a plan, but he wasn't ready for this. _Isn't_ ready. 

Coming out here was stupid. Foolish and pointless and _what the hell_ was he thinking he'd be able to accomplish anyway? Attack Negan? Take the Saviors head on? He barely even knows how to use this damned blaster. There'd been the required course, back in school, half a lifetime ago. He'd be lucky to get one shot off before going down, taking more Techniki down with him.

On the other side of the shed, Negan's talking again, his cajoling tones carrying even if his words don't. 

And suddenly- he doesn't know if he's just forgetting to be afraid, or if he's just more afraid of not seeing whatever's coming- Paul pulls himself together. Hoists himself back up into a crouch to see two Saviors grabbing Rick again, as Negan starts to pace, swinging the filthy wrench in the faces of his cringing hostages. 

"Simon, Tank, make sure Grimes fucking watches this time. Ain't got all day for this teachable moment bullshit."

And then Negan's kicking at the ground, grinding to a halt in front of-

It's the same man from the SVIOR feed, Paul realizes, the one who'd had the wings on his coveralls. He'd been at SciMed the day Gregory'd died. And now he's kneeling, hunched in the dirt, in another man's blood and brain tissue. His head's ducked down, but Paul can see him watching the wrench as Negan raises it again. 

Trying like _hell_ not to drop the stolen blaster, Paul bursts forward between two Saviors and shoulder-checks Negan as hard as he can. Negan doesn't go down, but he's thrown off balance enough that the momentum carries the wrench head into the side of Paul's arm painfully, nearly dislodging the blaster as he swings it up to Negan's throat. 

" _Back off!_ " he grinds out, pressing close enough that even if Negan manages to swing again, there won't be any power behind it. Dragging the muzzle against Negan's chin, he presses it firmly into Negan's chin, grinds it against his jaw. "This is _not_ how you're doing this."

Negan's never been stupid; he raises his hands. The wrench is still there, though Paul doesn't let himself get distracted. Sidestepping quickly in case someone's coming up behind him, he keeps his his hands steady as he addresses the rest of the Saviors. As loudly and clearly and seriously as he can manage, he grinds out, "Weapons on the ground, right fucking _now_." 

"Do as the squint says," Negan says, sounding like he's fucking _enjoying_ this, as he tosses the wrench down onto the caved-in skull of his first victim. "Wouldn't want to ruin Junior's big moment, now, would we?"

Risking a glance to his left, Paul sees that Dwight's already setting blaster down; another two are following suit. Looking to his left, he sees more of them doing the same, so he backs up out of Negan's space while still keeping it aimed at his chest. The fact that he's holding it this steady, as Negan plays along, will terrify him, later. 

Right now, though, it's all eyes on him, and he knows there aren't as many blasters on the ground as there should be. But when he orders the Saviors to back off to the side, they do as they're told. 

"What, _Jefferson_ ," Negan says, mugging for the crowd when he looks back at him, "you think you're actually gonna shoot me?"

"It's _Rovia_ ," he says, before he can stop himself. "I didn't come here looking for a fight." It's not exactly true, but he's got the blaster aimed, so nobody's calling him on it. And now that he's managed to carve this much of a pause into the proceedings, the sickening fear's giving way to disgusted anger. "But you're putting _everyone_ at risk, and that's a problem. You might have all the guns, but they've got more ways to sabotage this whole Colony that you or I can even _dream_ of, but it's nothing compared to what Admin can manage."

"Ooh, big talk from a squint, even if your daddy _was_ the governor. What're you going to do, vent the whole fucking Colony to space?" 

It's an option, and one that Admin would survive, thanks to it being the only enclave that was built prior to the membrane going up, not that anyone here would appreciate hearing it. Simon, for his part, seems thrilled to be chiming in. "Oh, _I_ know," he raises his hand, pretending shock, "maybe they'll shut down the supply chain!"

"They _been_ doing that," someone calls out. It's a Savior, at least that's what Paul's thinking until he glances over to see an older man, with close cropped hair, standing there in Techniki drab. 

"Not that they've got shit left to hoard anyway," Negan smugly confirms, before raising a patronizing eyebrow at Paul. "Which means they ain't gonna have much buying power for very long. _Certainly_ not for seven fucking months, and certainly not without security there to protect their precious Dockside warehouses from the skittering fucking _rabble_ out here. You want to start talking about what Admin can do, you'd best start thinkin' about who Admin's gonna _be_ before the next resupply."

Paul laughs. He can't help it, though he tries to choke it down before he distracts himself. " _What_ resupply? There isn't going to _be_ one."

Negan glares at Paul in disappointed disbelief. "You deaf, son? Something wrong with your fucking ears? You think we pulled seven months out of our asses cause we liked the fucking _sound_ of that shit? The hell did you think we were even _talking about_ here?"

The thing is, either Negan hadn't known- though it's unlikely, given the intel Spencer's been feeding him- or he's keeping it from his crew. But before Paul can process it, he catches movement off to his right; one of the Saviors has managed to toe his blaster close enough to pick up. 

Paul swivels and fires, all on one motion, leaving him still on his feet but cringing hard. The blaster kicks up dust as it hits the ground, but the Techniki are already scattering; Negan's stepping to the side like he's looking to take advantage. 

So Paul takes a quick step back and shoots him, too, catching him in the arm, sending him almost to his knees.

It would've been more satisfying if he'd dropped dead, or if it hadn't set the Saviors back to scrambling for their weapons, but there's a slider on the handle of Paul's blaster, he thumbs it up to one hundred percent as he keeps it trained on Negan's center mass; the sound of it reaching full charge cuts through the yard and instantly, everyone is silent. 

At least, he finally has time to realize, the Techniki have managed to capture a few of the blasters. It wouldn't have been an even fight, not with most of them still on the ground and traumatized, but it would've been _something_. Grimes, for his part, has Simon at gunpoint now, and Maggie, she's got Negan in her sights, even if it does look like she's still trying to work out the controls. 

"Listen up," he says, loudly, addressing the group, while keeping an eye on Negan, who's drawn himself up again to his full height. " _All_ of you. We're not just looking at seven months. The SA has taken out all the NATOPS launch sites, and we're on our own out here. There are _no more_ resupply ships coming." This time, finally, he has Negan's undivided, angry, and un-interrupting attention. "So Negan? If you were hoping to use one as leverage, I'm sorry to tell you. You're just as screwed as the rest of us." 

"Not fucking _nearly_."

"You're free to think that, of course. But here's the thing," he's careful to enunciate it clearly enough for the Saviors to hear. "Your allies on the Council hold temporary positions. If they lose ground on account of your being unable to rein in your dogs, they're going to drop you in a heartbeat. But not as quickly as they will once they find out that you're plotting treason against them." 

_Or with them_ , he doesn't add, because blabbing about the launch sites is bad; accusing Council members of treason is suicide. "So either you can stay here and wave your guns around some more, or you can march on over to Admin, bend a few ears maybe, before my people have a chance to report to them first. Your choice."

Getting caught in a bluff- that's suicide too. Thankfully, there are several Saviors looking at Negan with expressions ranging from confusion to outright betrayal; left unchecked for too long, they'll turn on him before he even makes it back across the Colony to discover the ruse. 

\--- 

The ruse is the least of his problems, watching Negan order his Saviors to leave. Despite everything, there are still a few Techniki converts trailing along with them, but he doesn't have the mental capacity to sort them out now. Because right now, the Saviors might be leaving. They might be backing off the Techniki, at least for a little while. But there will be repercussions; given the way Negan's dragging his feet and smirking at the man he'd not quite managed to murder, they'll be coming sooner rather than later. 

They'll probably be coming for Paul, too, but right now, that's not his main concern. He hadn't merely pissed Negan off, or undermined his position in front of his Saviors. He'd also pointed him, unerringly, in Admin's direction, for better or worse.

It could be, Paul realizes, that he's just started a war.


	15. Chapter 15

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 13:41_

Though the Admin squint, Maggie and Rick are moving the Saviors- including their new recruits- along, Negan's the last to leave. He's bein' real deliberate about it, too, draggin' his feet, movin' slow like he ain't got a care in the world. It's all for show, probably, just like the hands he's holding up next to his shoulders. Just like the way he looks back over his shoulder, right at him, and calls out, "Dogboy?" 

Daryl fuckin' hates himself for looking, for not even having to be called out. He ain't sure ignoring him would've bought him much of anything worthwhile, but at least he wouldn't have to see the fucker smilin' at him like that. 

"I'll see you around, champ," Negan says, wiggling his fingers as he disappears around the side of the toolshed. 

Fuck. 

His knees and the heels of his hands are damp. Sticky. 

He watches Maggie, out towards the front of the yard, blaster in hand as she glares after Negan. He wants to call out to her, tell her to shoot. Doesn't know why he doesn't. Doesn't know why _she_ doesn't.

" _Daryl_."

He blinks, looks up to find Michonne crouching down in front of him, her hands coming up to the sides of his face like she's putting blinders on him. As if he's got the capacity to look back at her with half the amount of focus that she's using on him. 

Fuck, he can't even meet her eye for more'n a second. 

"Daryl, we need to get you up and out of here, okay?"

He nods, and she stands up, holding out her hand for him to grab. Feels clumsy, getting up, and stupid too, 'cause it ain't like he's injured, not really. 

But then he feels the sudden slide of a weight he'd been ignoring, dropping along his right side, and he hears the dull thudding slap of an arm hitting the dirt, and he freezes. Just for a second, though. Michonne tugs on his hand again, and yeah. Moving. Now. 

Taking one step, he loosens his grip, wiping his hands on his coveralls, and falls into step next to her, letting himself be led without thinking. 

The side of his face is sticky; it's starting to itch. Dried sweat, blood. Other things. 

"...but why haven't we heard anything?" Rick's asking the Admin as they pass by.

"Take it up with the damn Council," the Admin tugs his hair back out of his face, sounding tired and resigned as he glares down at the pile of blasters. He looks up at Michonne, and his eyes glance off of Daryl's before Daryl can look away. "Anyone got a bag? I need to get these back."

Daryl's hands are shaking, and he's dizzy. Adrenaline sick, he thinks. Like he's about to pass out or puke, and it's gonna be soon. Batting Michonne's hands away, he sits down at the worktable, plants his elbows right where the wrench should be- should've _stayed_ \- and just leans forward, trying to breathe. 

Closing his eyes don't help much; opening them, all he can see is Abe's body, still there on the ground. He hasn't gotten up yet. 

_Of course he fucking hasn't._ He's dead. 

Someone- Michonne- is squeezing his shoulder, trying to get him to look away. "We'll handle it." 

He'd forgotten she was there, so he looks up at her to make up for it. She manages a grin- it's a tight one, reflexive and sad- and looks over to where Rick's still talking with the Admin- 

Rovia. Not Jefferson, but he's the dead Governor's family. His clothes might be dirty now but the expression on his face is the same as it had been when they'd crossed paths at SciMed the other day. Only then, he'd looked right at Daryl, like he'd recognized him or something. 

He ain't doing that now, focused as he is on the blasters and Rick, and it occurs to Daryl that maybe he should change that. Go back and thank him, or something, seein' as how he'd shown up like a whirlwind and stopped his brains from getting spattered across the dirt, for now, at least. 

There's another squeeze on his shoulder, and his vision swims more than it should- fucking hell, he hates this- Michonne is watching him intently enough that he can't help glancing over to see what it is that she's avoiding. 

Eric and Aaron are coming out of the house with a blanket; it used to be bright blue, before the dust settled into it. They're spreading it out, dropping it over Abe's body, turning him from a _who_ into a _what_. 

There's an alarm ringing out, faintly, drifting quietly across the commons. School's just let out. It's gonna be fucked enough, them coming back to find all this; him sitting here wearing someone else's brains and blood won't make it any better. 

"Kids'll be coming," she says, quietly. "Should get you cleaned up."

He needs to get his shit together. Needs to snap out of this. "Yeah."

"You good to walk yet?"

Nodding carefully- trying to shove some thanks into it, because he knows what he needs to do now, and he hadn't a minute ago- he pushes himself up from the seat. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 14:50_

Daryl keeps his eyes closed as he takes his second shower in two days. Gets the dried bits of things he doesn't think about out of his hair by feel alone, until a fragment of something sharp sticks into the side of his finger. After that, he just stands under the stream and hopes for the best.

He's drying off when he hears footsteps entering the building, and he freezes, suddenly thinking about the cabin back in Georgia- after Mom died- for the first time in years. Whole damn place always felt like another shoe waiting to drop. But it's just Glenn, avoiding his eyes as she slips into the shower stall down on the other end, and Daryl shakes himself. It's stupid, thinking about old _done_ shit like the cabin, when Negan's people could come around whenever, looking for a rematch at any moment. 

That's what he keeps in his head as he makes his way home. Not being noticed. Not by any Saviors- there aren't any out here any more; they've all gone back to lick their wounds, or plan their revenge- and not by anyone else either. But his brain's fucking with him anyhow; it's got him imagining that he's leading Negan, Simon, that fucker Dwight and the other assholes _right_ back to his people. 

As if they hadn't just made it glaringly clear that they know where they live. 

Outside Alexandria, he catches sight of Carl's back as Rick tries to keep him from going around the side and into the yard. 

He doesn't stop, and he keeps his head down as he passes, but he can still hear Rick tryin' to explain it. 

\--- 

_Tuesday, 05/06/2194, 14:52_

Paul stops by the AdSec offices first thing, where the officers working the desk aren't as surprised as they could be to receive a dozen standard issue sidearms- minus the one he'd left with Rick- from an Admin who's got no business carrying them. 

Apart from a clear suspicion that something's wrong, they don't _know_ , yet, what's happened. So for for the time being, Paul decides to let it ride. 

He doesn't have a plan. It seems pointless to even try. He knows exactly which regulations he'd broken; he'd made a list as he'd hauled the bag of blasters back across the commons. He'd fought people who are still, _administratively_ , at least considered AdSec. He'd divested them of seventeen sidearms, not including the one he'd stolen from the armory before heading out there. He'd leaked level five information to a few dozen people who'd been in no place to hear it. He'd entertained, loudly and in public, the notion that Negan was planning a mutiny, even going to the point of aiming him at Admin like some sort of fighting animal, before giving the Techniki a stolen weapon. 

At best, he'll be demoted. At worst, he'll walk up to the door of his quarters to find the Council standing there with an AdSec team full of Saviors. 

He turns the corner down to his hallway. Prides himself on not even missing a step when he sees that he was only half-right; Coates and Deanna Spencer are waiting alone. 

"Paul," she steps towards him, like she, at least, is a little surprised to be finding herself there. For a moment, she just stares worriedly at him. "I'm afraid we are here to place you under arrest."

It feels like he should say something here. Muster up some sort of defense. But he's his hands are starting to shake; he's bone-tired, now. He needs to rest, needs to think. Needs all of this just to _stop_ for a minute. 

"Under whose orders?"

She sighs heavily, glancing at Coates, who hasn't taken his glare off of him since he'd turned down the corridor, and then back at him. 

"Mine."


	16. Chapter 16

_Wednesday, 05/07/2194, 10:23_

Even though it starts late, Daryl's groggy as hell at the morning briefing, and he ain't the only one. 

Nobody's talkin' more than they need to, or lookin' too hard at anyone else. Rick doles out the jobs in a quick monotone, then gives out the details for Abe's memorial. It'll be here, in the briefing hall, of course, starting at 14:00. Rick makes the usual request for pictures or anything that anyone would like to put on display, and, like usual, nobody has any. It'll probably be the usual work ID photo up on the screen in the corner, nothing more. 

"One last thing." Rick's finally starting to wind down. "When I was at the morgue, signing off on everything, I ran into Sasha. We spoke. There was a hiccup with her transfer papers to AdSec; they were idling in Admin for a few days- I played some phone tag when I got back here and managed to sign off on them. But what's important is this-"

"Why'd she go?" Tara, when Daryl glances over, looks like she's been slapped in the face. And she ain't the only one. 

"She said that she thought she could do some good, there. That she could help things." Rick's gaze sharpens, just a little. "And I trust her, even if I don't see things the same way. But she wanted me to tell all of you not to worry, that she's okay."

"Did she _look_ okay?" Michonne asks, sounding skeptical. 

"We were in the _morgue_. Watching Abe get put away. So no, she looked like hell. But she was still there, and I don't have any reason to believe that she's bought anything that Negan's been selling." 

\---

 _Wednesday, 05/07/2194, 14:33_

Daryl can only make it for about ten minutes before he has to leave the memorial. 

Sasha, as far as anyone can tell, can't make it at all. 

\---

 _Thursday, 05/08/2194, 18:25_

A few hours ago, they'd finally started hitting sunset, the gray-brown sky tinting purple and orange. Sometime in the next week it'll go deep red, but not soon after, the colony will go dark for the first time in eight months. Maybe that's why it's easier, talking about it now- the relative darkness lending them some sort of sense of security. Maybe they're all just starting to climb up out of their shock. 

Eric- Aaron's probably inside the house somewhere- is making room at the table for Father Gabriel. Him bein' back probably means that the vigil he'd been keeping for the Catholic Admin at SciMed is done with, but he says he's fine when Michonne asks. 

"Has anyone seen or talked to Sasha yet?" Rick's sitting on the toolbox, not looking at anyone in particular, but looking fairly desperate. 

Daryl shakes his head, not tearing his eyes from the strip, same as everyone else who's pretending that they aren't out here keepin' watch. Bob and the others have only been gone twenty minutes, though; it's too early to worry. 

Negan might not have come back to Alexandria, yet, but they'd made a run on the 'culturalists this morning, out in the bamboo garden behind the greenhouse. Nobody'd resisted and nobody'd died, but they'd lost three more people to the Saviors' ranks. 

Nobody's sure how things are looking down on the strip, even though the curfew's off. With the prices getting jacked up, it's too expensive for anyone who ain't Admin. With the AdSec briefing hall and training yard bein' so close, it ain't safe for anyone who ain't a Savior. But so far, there's been no news about anyone working over there- not from the clerks,cooks, vid shop prostitutes, or liquor agents. Could be that they're all just doing fine. Could be that they're making friends. Could be that they're just as fucking scared as everyone over here is; there ain't no telling. 

Nobody here had believed it when Bob had assured them that he was only heading down there on a beer run. But nobody'd been particularly hopeful, either, when he'd said that maybe he'd be able to get a read on the situation down there. In the end, seeing as how nobody else'd had any better ideas, they'd all chipped in, and Rick had sent Jess and Monte along with him. 

"Sasha hasn't shown up at SciMed," Tara offers. "Denise doesn't have anything on file, for what it's worth."

Rick sighs; like everyone else, he hasn't slept in days, and it's starting to show. His eyes are red and he's distracted. Probably worrying about Carl and the OT kids who've been staying over at Beth Green's safe-house slumber party. A month ago, Rick and Michonne probably would've been thrilled to have a few nights to themselves, but they wouldn't be anywhere near as weary as they both are. 

And it's been going around, this demoralized anxiety, like a virus. Chipping away at everyone. It had gotten down to the nerve first in Tara and Denise's case, though sometime in the last few hours they've apparently patched things up enough that Tara's got her overnight bag sitting at her feet. 

Aaron and Eric haven't spoken to each other in two days, though he hadn't realized it until Michonne had pointed it out this morning. 

"So, Daryl," she'd nodded first at Eric, and then over at Aaron, and leaned in close. "Who are you fighting with? I hear it's all the rage these days." 

"Nobody," he'd grumbled, 'cause it wasn't like the whole damn house hadn't heard her and Rick's shouting last night. "Saving it up for those Savior fucks, and y'all might want to start thinking about doing the same." 

Lookin' at things now, while she might not be gearing up for date night, at least she's sitting next to Rick again. 

"We need to come up with a plan," Rick's saying, as if nobody'd heard him the first five times he's said it today, but he's still looking at Tara, so she's the one who shrugs.

"For my part, I'm planning on staying with Denise." Rick doesn't say anything, but apparently there's something in his face that making Tara twitch. "What? I'm going to crash with my girlfriend, not running away to join the Saviors."

"Yeah, I know." Rick shakes his head and blinks. "Sorry, I just- we got lucky yesterday, and we got lucky today, but they're coming. Ain't a question of _if_ , just when, and where and how bad."

"Well, at least we'll have a line on anything worrying coming in or out of medical." She's trying to keep an optimistic tone, at least. "It's not quite as good as having a double agent in with the Saviors, but at least they see people from all the enclaves. Might be useful."

Daryl swallows. He'd been kind of hoping to be half a beer down before saying anything, but it's an opening.

"Might have an idea about that," he says, and Rick looks at him so damn alertly that he looks like a completely different person; it's distracting. "When they were leaving. What Negan said. That he'd see me around."

"He was just trying to rub your face in it," Gabriel shakes his head. "Trying to rattle you."

"May be so, but. It might be an in. I mean. Used to run with some of those guys. Back in the day. Kinda."

Michonne scoffs. "Yeah, if it hadn't gone so well the first time, you and I might never have met in the _brig_."

Eric's scowling at him, shaking his head. "So, what, you're just going to waltz over there like Ed? Or like Chad?"

"Ed's an asshole and a coward, and New Kid's an idiot." He shakes his head. "But far as they could tell, if it came down to it, maybe."

"If it _came down_ to it? _No_. They had you-" cutting herself off, Michonne shakes her head firmly, and takes a breath. "Negan was _literally_ winding up to kill you."

"Depending on how it goes, it might not go down that way." Even to himself, it sounds weak. It's a stupid idea. He'd had it all figured out, last night, when he'd been lyin' there trying to sleep.

It might've ended up bad for Merle- running with Negan's crew, and then running around with Dwight's lady- but it hadn't started out that way. The stupid shit Daryl'd gone along with, keeping with Merle the way he'd done back then? It's exactly the kind of shit Negan's recruiting for now. 

"Not seeing a whole lot of other options."

"What about Rovia?" Father Gabriel asks, doin' that thing where he keeps his voice quiet and calm to force everyone to listen. "Can we count on him as an ally?"

"I dunno," Rick shrugs. "Didn't seem all that hopeful that he wasn't going back to get arrested, or that we'd have much luck with that blaster he passed me. I mean, I'm down to have him on side, but I haven't heard anything more from him."

"That's great and all," Daryl says, leaning forward 'cause it's starting to look like he can swing this around. "But even _if_ Negan doesn't kill him on sight- which I'm guessing's somewhere on his list after that stunt he pulled- we don't actually know the guy." 

And it's probably not worth changing that, either. He might've gotten between him and the wrench, but only an Admin would be so stupid as to walk into a situation like that, the way he'd done, announcing that the colony was being cut off, like it wouldn't set people to rioting. "Me, if I do it right- make it look like he's getting some big victory over on us- Negan might play into it."

"Might kill _you_ on sight, too." Gabriel points out, firmly enough that the _so what_ on Daryl's tongue goes from being a viable reply to a mistake that isn't worth making.

It doesn't mean it's not true. Not that he's looking to mention it, regardless of any beer showing up any time soon. Michonne hadn't meant anything by it when she'd asked him, this morning, who he'd been fighting with, but his answer had come readily enough, and he hadn't been wrong. 

He's got friends here- good ones- and he knows it. But he's not like Rick and Michonne with their kids, or Tara and Denise, or Aaron and Eric. He's not part of any _will they won't they_ scene, like Glenn and Maggie are, or at the _are they or ain't they_ stage like Abe and Sasha'd been. 

He's not half of anything, and he doesn't have any thing better to do. 

And it makes him expendable in the way that the others aren't. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have a chance to try explaining it. Bob, Monte and Jess are coming up through the commons towards them, returnable growlers in hand. And Rick, while everyone else is getting up to greet them and sort out cups and shit, he's looking at him like he's considering the idea, for real. 

\--- 

_Thursday, 05/08/2194, 20:27_

He'd been searched, charged, assigned counsel. In this case, it had been Jenna Schwindt, who hadn't done much more than tell him that she'd review his case and be back to see him as soon as his 72 hour isolation hold expired.

That had been two days ago. Maybe. Time's funny, down here.

His cell's six feet by eight feet, and with the bunk, the sink and the toilet, there's no room left for pacing. Barely any room for thinking, and providing little to think about. The three cement walls are the same gray-brown as the dirt outside; the fourth is shatterproof, and crisscrossed with a net of thin, bare wires, in case he got any ideas about touching it. 

As far as he can tell, he's the only one down here, though he can hear noise downstairs in sublevel two. Negan's peons, most likely,are clearing out more cells, even though all the ones he can see without electrocuting himself on _this_ level are empty. 

It's not about the cells, then. Either it's a make-work project, or Negan's just fucking with Admin, having an excuse to send his troops marching through the their enclave a few times a day. 

Not that Paul's suspicions are worth anything. He's got several others built up now, too, having spent the first few hours furiously lining up every part of his reasoning and defense. But there's nowhere for them to land until Monday, and nobody to tell them to in the meantime. 

The AdSec officers that swing through- if AdSec even _means_ anything anymore- are unreadable through their visors. They barely stop at his cell long enough to do more than slide meal trays through the slot in the door before returning to their post by the base of the stairs. The cameras mounted in the corridor outside are maintaining the bulk of his surveillance, though whether or not he's being actively monitored, he has no way of knowing. It's by design.

He'd been resigned to the fact of his arrest the moment he'd arrived back at Admin two days ago. He hadn't resisted, hadn't fought. He'd had no expectation of things ending well, once he'd realized what he'd done, so he hadn't bothered trying to predict what would come next. 

He'd convinced himself he'd been prepared for anything, and all he's been faced with is nothing. It's been wearing thin. And this, too, is by design. 

It had made sense when they'd talked about it back in school. 72 hours meant violent offenders had a chance to calm down before meeting with their counsel. Two days in, though, and he's starting to fantasize about jumping the guards the moment they eventually do open the door. 

Not that it would have much use. They have blasters and he's barely been sleeping; he can't doze for more than a few minutes at a time because there's so little _happening_ down here, he can't afford to miss it when something actually _does_. Heavy loads being dropped on the floor below, footsteps in the hallway, the sound of the hallway camera hitting the end of it's half-rotation and turning back- he's aware of each and every noise, even in his sleep.

So he's exhausted, and doesn't have anything to talk to or even think about, and _that_ , really, is the worst. 

He's being isolated. Cut off, out of the loop. Unaware of anything that's happening outside of this floor, while being simultaneously sure that bad things _are_ happening, somewhere where he can't get to them. Maybe Negan's attacking the Techniki again. Maybe he's moved on to SciMed or Ag or the Strip. Maybe he's having cosy meetings with the Council. 

He just doesn't _know_ , and it shouldn't matter, because he doesn't have anyone to warn, anyway. 

One more day, and he can start sorting this shit out. 

Just one more day. 

\--- 

_Friday, 05/09/2194, 05:46_

"What are you doing?" 

Daryl looks up from the pile of junk on his bed- his eyes feel like they're going to crack in their sockets- to find Carl standing in the doorway; it hadn't been closed, so he hadn't bothered knocking. 

"It ain't even six. Why are you up?"

"Couldn't sleep. What are you doing?"

"Going through my shit." 

He's not, Daryl's realizing, asking about the packing he's doing. Or unpacking, more accurately. He figures, if he's going to be taken and probably searched, he's going to need to make sure anything he has looks too unimportant to worry about. The Swiss Army knife is innocuous enough, given his work, but he'd stolen it off his old man when he was eleven, and the thought of Negan stealing it off of him just _rankles_. 

Almost as much as Carl's stare is starting to. " _What?_ "

"Overheard Dad talking to Michonne. You're going to go let Negan take you."

"Shit. You tell anyone else?"

Carl shakes his head, then brushes his hair out of his face. It's getting long. "Why?"

 _Because he's coming anyway, and it's better if it doesn't happen here_ isn't what Carl needs to hear, at least not from him and not right now. And Rick probably wouldn't want him telling him anything at all. So he just shrugs, goes back to sorting out the pile of things he's planning on having in his pockets. 

"He's still going to come back for us either way," Carl says. "Everyone knows it, otherwise Dad wouldn't have ordered the watch rotation. You deciding just to _give up_ isn't going to change that." 

"I'm not." He looks up at Carl to find him regarding him over crossed arms. "But it's probably not something I should tell you about."

"I'm not _five_."

"Ain't got nothing to do with it. If you don't know what's going on right now, nobody can punch it out of you later."

"Yeah, because Negan's totally the type to ask questions before beating people's head in with a wrench."

Daryl winces at that, then glares back at Carl, who meets it unflinchingly. 

But fuck it. Carl's not _his_ kid. If Rick's got a problem with it, him and Carl can sort it out later. 

"All right, look. Either they're lookin' to finish what they started, which means I don't want it happenin' _here_ , or they're recruiting. But if I'm in with them, I might be able to get y'all a warning, first."

"How're you gonna manage that?"

" _That_ , he says, "I'm not telling you. But it's been sorted." And it has been, the easiest way he knows how. He's got access to the job queue, both with his login and with Rick's. Everything beyond that is just deliberate typos in very specific parts of the system. They'd set it up last night, once Rick had decided that Daryl truly meant to go through with it whether he liked it or not. 

"Look. We've got watches set up and everything, but it's still too easy to get taken by surprise. I'm not saying this will prevent that, but it's got a shot. And we still don't know what's going on with Sasha. She might've turned, she might need help. Either way, we need to know."

Carl finally relaxes a bit, even smiles, like he's forgotten he'd come in here all seven kinds of pissed off. "You might even be able to sabotage him, if it comes down to it."

Daryl nods, like he hasn't already given it some thought and figured that the odds were low. Carl, though, he's saying it so certainly that it could be he's got a point. "Maybe," he says, and glances down at the stuff on his bed. "You want to hang on to some of this shit while I'm gone? Think they're probably going to search me first thing."

Carl's looking at the knife- he's borrowed it more than once before, seems to like fidgeting with it, but he glances up like he's not sure. So Daryl picks it up and tosses it over. A few seconds- increasingly awkward ones- later, Carl pulls a stern face. 

"Only's long as you come back for it."

"Deal." Daryl says, noticing that Carl's shirt is all rucked up on something in his pocket, and he nods at it. "What's that?"

"Huh?" Carl looks down, starts straightening out his shirt, but then looks at him again and shrugs. 

It's bamboo, about eight inches long. Not much to look at, until Carl hands it over and he gets a look at the other end. It's been carved to a barbed point, and looks sharper than Daryl'd realized. "Was just messing around last night," Carl shrugs, though he ain't lookin' him in the eye. "Dana was showing us how to carve stuff."

It's the kind of thing he might've fucked around with, when he'd been Carl's age, only there hadn't been any bamboo in Georgia. But that ain't the problem. Givin' him a knife to fix shit with is one thing. Seein' him walkin' around like he's got to arm himself is another. 

And it ain't even wrong, really. 

But it sure as hell ain't right. 

\--- 

_Friday, 05/09/2194, 18:07_

There are another 700 credits in his account, which wouldn't bear comment any other week, but on any other week, he wouldn't be trying to head down to the strip with the intention of getting his ass kidnapped. 

It's a stupid idea. They're going to see right through it. 

But he's got his plan. First, he'll blow most of his paycheck on a bottle of real whiskey, just because he might as well enjoy _something_ before all of the hell he's diving into. He'll start in on it down at the strip, and then make his way towards the perimeter walkway. 

That part isn't hard; he's practiced walking without being noticed since he was a kid, ought to get a medal for it. There's no line at the liquor agent's stall, either. Then again, apart from the nervous workers, one or two hardline alcoholics, and a few oblivious Admin, the only people down here are Saviors. 

He buys a fifth of Jim Jameson, finding that the complete lack of business isn't enough to prevent them from pricing it at 1500 credits. Reminding himself that it don't matter, that he can afford it anyway- it ain't like he spends more than a hundred credits, on an average week- it still takes him a minute to actually get himself to do more than run his thumb over the edge of the green and white paper label glued to the front. When he unscrews the cap, there's an actual _cracking_ noise as the seal breaks; he's not sure he's actually heard that sound since leaving Earth. He pulls straight from the bottle as he starts walking down the strip, and as the whiskey burns his throat, decides that whatever else is going on, this part of the plan's _worth it_. 

By the time he's taken another drink, he's been spotted; Simon and Milo are hanging out in front of the Vid Shop; he watches their eyes track him in the reflection of the bakery's darkened window. Thinks he sees Simon signal back to someone else, but he can't be sure. 

Whatever. He's doing this deliberately furtive thing, so he keeps his head down, glaring at the hard-clad dirt. Doesn't look up, doesn't look back. Stops, towards the end of the strip, to take another pull off the bottle before capping it and slipping it into his pocket. Uses it as an excuse to glance sideways. He thinks someone's looking, but he's not sure. 

Best case scenario, they'll come after him. Worst case scenario, he'll have to do this again tomorrow. 

Cutting through the commons and heading for the perimeter, he takes it out again allows himself another half-swig. The taste of it doesn't hit him as much as he'd hoped; he needs to slow down.

He's got the bamboo garden off to the right when he makes it to the perimeter junction; nobody else is here, the benches are empty and everything's quiet, so it's as good a place as any to stop. Sitting down on the bench facing the rocks and dust outside, he kicks his feet out. Searches out the radio tower lights of the erosion monitoring station, halfway to the horizon. They're green now, but they won't stay that way forever.

Whether any of them are still going to be here when it turns red is anybody's guess.

It's just dark enough now that the membrane gives only a faint reflection back behind him, but fuck it. If they found him looking the other way, they'd probably start wondering why he doesn't hightail it right the fuck out of there the moment they approach. 

Each small sip of the whiskey, he holds in his mouth, long enough to numb it. He's trying not to drink too much, just enough to keep it on his breath. He palms some and wipes it on his neck, because he'd seen a movie where someone had done that; he's got no idea if it actually smells like drunk-sweat. 

He doesn't have long to wait, as it turns out. At first all he sees is the red neon reflection of the pizza joint back on the strip blinking off for a long second, then on again, as someone crosses in front of it. They'd probably started following him right after he'd crossed onto the commons. 

He listens, hard; suddenly he's remembering tracking a deer he'd shot with Merle on one of their hunting trips. The doe had been close, but the underbrush had been thick and it had started to rain.  
He hadn't been scared, then. Just focused. And right now, suddenly, all of his focus is being spent on not being scared at all. 

_This was your fucking idea, kid_ , Merle'd said then, and he might as well be saying it now. 

There are two of them, maybe three? One's off to the left, another right behind him, at least twenty feet back. But it sounds like they're flanking him. 

"Daryl Motherfuckin' Dixon, as I live and breathe," Negan calls out, from his right, and yeah, Daryl should've figured it. He's not the type to stay quiet for long. 

Daryl freezes; as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, it's not a fake reaction, more of an acknowledgement that he's a total fuckup who's about to be hit and there'll be no ducking it. 

He turns his head to the right, just enough to get Negan in his sights, and then he stands up, fast, knocking over the bottle. Hopefully it all spills out before one of these fucks decides to help himself- no reason to make _their_ nights any better- but that shouldn't be his main priority. 

Negan's got a blaster. So does Dwight. The other Savior, coming up from behind him, is a face that Daryl recognizes, but not sitting up on top of that uniform. Vince or Vick or something like that, one of the greenhouse workers. Vince or Vick doesn't look like he's faking anything here; it's best to look back to Negan, all the same. 

"The fuck do you want?" His throat feels like gravel; he's louder than he'd thought he'd be. 

"Oh, if only you fucking knew. But for now, I'll be satisfied with _you_ , taking a knee, right here and fucking now."

"Might as well just blast me and get it over with, then." He wonders, idly, if the whiskey's kicking in. He thinks maybe that it has. 

"Haven't you heard? We've got to be economical with the equipment these days." Negan makes a show of holstering his sidearm, then gestures for his lackeys to do the same. "We're facing a shortage, gotta make shit _last_ , now. You know how it is. Besides. If there's one thing your friend Abe taught me, is that if you're looking to make an impact, well, you have to make an _impact_."

Daryl sees the punch coming, can't stop himself from trying to evade it, but all it does is send him reeling back when Negan's fist cracks into his jaw. Someone's got him by the back of his neck; they grab his arms too. The grips tighten when he tries to get his elbow free, intent on fighting back- he doesn't even know if he's pretending, he's just _reacting_. His tongue is screaming at him; his mouth tastes bloody. 

"Easy now," Dwight tells him, quietly and close. "No sense making this any harder than it's gotta be."

"He's right, you know. You can run now, and we'll follow you. Or you can come with us, all easy like."

"Why the hell for?" He finally shakes Dwight off of him, and glares back at Negan. The fact that they've got to figure him for bein' all talk is fine, but he tries not to let it show. "Seriously, man. We ain't shit to you. You kill us all off, there ain't anyone to fix shit around here."

"Thought you'd have heard by now. Ain't no point in killing folks, at least without reason, now that the powers that be are killing us all _for_ us." Negan shakes his head. "This is about getting people in line, nothing more, nothing less. Right now, with everyone circle-jerking in their tiny fucking enclaves, each trying to screw over the other before they get screwed themselves, we're wasting a lot of time and energy. So I've been thinking, we need a change around here. A unified front. Only you dumb fucks don't know what that even _looks_ like, so I'm gonna take care of it for all of you."

"Noble talk, but you're being an asshole."

Dwight and the other guy tense at his sides, but Negan only laughs.

"Yeah, some eggs are gonna get splattered across the dirt in the process. Don't want to waste too many, since human fucking beings are becoming a finite resource on this here rock, so what would be easier is if everyone would just _play ball_."

Negan, still grinning, comes closer. Flinching away isn't even an act, as he puts an arm around his shoulders. "Martial law's about to be declared and your opinions don't count for shit any more than they ever fucking had. But here's the thing. I got this dream, right, that one day, we're out at Alexandria, you're there at my side. Your friends see you there, they might not do anything stupid. They win, we win, and it'll all go down like a pederast in a boys' school." 

Daryl's shoved forward, suddenly, and has to stumble to keep himself from falling. Negan's tone has changed, though. That fake friendly's been dropped, his words dropping like lead weights. "For now, though, you're a goddamn hostage, at least until I've seen which way you jump. You get in line for now, jump when, where, and how I _say_ jump, though, and we'll see where shit goes." 

Daryl misses the signal that Negan must give, because Dwight's grabbing at his coveralls again and shoving him forward. When he tries to shake him off, the grip only tightens. 

"Don't make us fuck you up more," he says, his voice a monotone compared to Negan's. "Just keep walking." 

None of them, so far as Daryl can tell, make a move for the whiskey.


	17. Chapter 17

_Friday, 05/09/2194, 18:18_

The footsteps in the hall are quieter than the regulation AdSec boots, but he blinks awake quickly just the same. Straightening out his clothing, and shoving his hair- it's getting matted, back into a knot at the back of his head, he watches the glass, waits for Schwindt to appear. 

Instead, it's Deanna staring back at him. 

"Councilwoman?"

"Paul," she regards him tiredly. Opens her mouth to speak and seems to think better of it. 

"What's going on? Where's my counsel?" 

Deanna gives him a weary, pitying, apologetic smile. "Recusing herself." 

"What does she have against me?"

"Nothing. Quite the opposite, really. She likes you and, given the events of the last twelve hours, knows that you're better off without her. So she's filed for a replacement. On the down side, it means your hearing has been forestalled until the position's been filled. But in the meantime, it means that your case management has reverted back to the arresting officers, though I wouldn't expect to see Coates coming down here, with all of the fires he's putting out." She grins at this, or at least makes an attempt. 

He wants to bite out something rude, make demands that she's got no responsibility to even listen to. His throat tight, he manages, "Why all of this? If you wanted to screw me over, I'm sure there are more efficient ways."

"I'm not _screwing you over_ , Paul. What I'm _doing_ is keeping you alive." She rolls her neck, glancing briefly down the hallway. "Things have gotten complicated, upstairs. Thanks to your little stunt, tensions are coming to a head. The Saviors are _kidnapping_ people. The 'culturalists are making weapons out of _bamboo_ like they're planning on making a very _stupid_ last stand. Just this afternoon, were forced to swear in a new governor just so we can start to get a handle on the situation."

"Who?" He grits his teeth, knowing already that he's not going to like the answer. 

"Coates nominated Spencer for the position, and the council voted six to one in his favor." At his glare, she frowns back. "For what it's worth, I actually cast the dissenting vote. He'll be a good Governor, one day, but he's not ready and he's behaving rashly."

"You all put him in there, and now you're worried about _how_ he's doing it?"

"Of course! The Charter is very specific, in some areas, regarding what can and cannot be done in states of emergency." She gives him a hard look. "But it is distressingly vague in others. For instance, the declaration would have no effect on the status of, or judicial proceedings against, already incarcerated peoples. It would, however, give the Governor complete control over AdSec, in ways that you've never been alive to see. It would expedite the search and seizure procedures. It will do away with any real protections for our citizens that would otherwise be promised. Anyone who's made themselves unpopular with AdSec would be made a walking target." She looks at him, level. "So in case you've been wondering why Mrs. Schwindt recused herself, I hope the situation is _starting_ to become more clear?"

He can't begin to think about what's going on with the rest of the colony while he's still locked up in here. The real question is, honestly, if things are as fucked as all that, or at least getting there, why Deanna or Schwindt would've bothered to worry about him the first place. 

He's not going to ask, though he'll regret it the moment she leaves. 

"Listen, Paul. I like you. And what you did was stupid. But it was brave, too, and we're going to have need of that again in the very near future. However, behavior like that is not likely to be forgiven by the people who are about to be holding all the cards. Keeping you out of sight and out of play is the only way we've got to ensure your ongoing survival." 

She takes a step back, offering up a smile that's probably supposed to be reassuring, but all Paul can think is that it looks like she's talking to a dead man. 

\--- 

_Friday, 05/09/2194, 19:57_

The guard outside has his visor down, not that the distinction between AdSec and Savior means much these days. It certainly doesn't move him to go chasing after Council members on Paul's account. He asks three times, and each attempt feels more pathetic than the last. 

The work shift ended a few hours ago- at least he'd thought so, but he's been losing track of time. He can hear the noise from the stairwell, though, the sounds of feet and people shoving and Simon's voice barking orders. 

The guard's noticed it too, walking quickly towards the sound, and returning a moment later with Simon and two other men. They're wrestling a woman in Ag Department green to a cell down the hall; she's muttering under her breath, wincing at the way they've got her arm twisted behind her back. She looks in his direction as she passes, but nothing registers on her face. 

He thinks, afterwards, once the Saviors have gone, that he should've said something. Told them to let her go, or to ease up. He should've at least tried. 

For a while, he can hear her bitching to herself. She says something about Negan, he's pretty sure. But she eventually wears herself out, and goes quiet, before he can even work up the nerve to ask her if she's okay.

It's not the kind of question that should require _nerve_ to ask. But it's a stupid one. Hollow and pointless. 

Eventually- there's been a shift change- the guard slides a tray through the door for him, and he eats quickly. Ten minutes after he's done, he can't remember what he'd had. 

He should've tried again, he realizes. Should've asked the new guard what he's heard, or if he could get someone from the Council down here. It wouldn't have been much of a conversation, and it would've been pointless to try, but it would've been something. 

But he hadn't even gotten a look at the face under the visor, and it hadn't occurred to him to bother. 

The lights never go dim here. Never go dark. He's starting to doze again, and he fights it at first. But eventually, he gives up the pretense- stretches out on the bunk and buries his face in his arm, and he's out. 

\--- 

_Friday, 05/09/2194, 22:08_

He's awake again after what feels like a few hours, and he feels more exhausted than he had when he'd laid down. Now his arms and back are sore, his legs tight from disuse. 

Which changes quickly when he realizes that someone's standing in the corridor, back to him, speaking into their comms unit. 

"Hey, I know," Heath's telling someone. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow night. Yeah. The shift just came up. Saldano called off sick.... Well, the strip's out, but it could be, like, an excuse to stay in... Yeah, your place or mine, whatever you like is fine with me." He sounds like he's smiling, which is exactly what he's doing when he turns around and notices Paul staring at him. "All right, girl, I gotta go." Heath says, eyes widening in warning at Paul under his visor. "See you tomorrow.... Yeah, you too." 

Heath cuts his eyes to his left, down the corridor, and then turns and starts walking. Whatever's going on, Paul figures that being filmed clearly waiting for him is the wrong play, so he sits back down on his bunk and examines his fingernails. 

It's a nice change, having to at least _pretend_ not to do anything. It's more than he's actually _done_ all day. 

After a short while, the footsteps return. Heath's standing against the wall on the other side of the corridor, just underneath the camera, and he's got his comms screen out and in his hand. Looks to be using it. 

"Cameras are first gen, video only. So if you're gonna talk back, hide it," he says, quietly enough that Paul worries that while the cameras aren't a major concern, being overheard still could be.

"What's going on? Don't suppose you're here to bust me out?" It's a weak joke, but it's apt, and as he's turning back to straighten out the scratchy bunk blanket, he thinks he catches Heath grinning.

"Sorry, man. We ain't there yet." That, actually, scares the hell out of him, but when he cuts a glance back at heath he just sees him frowning at his comms screen. "What's the last you heard?"

"Councilwoman Monroe telling me her son, Governor Spencer, has declared a state of emergency."

A muttered _fuck_ , and then, more loudly. "She's not wrong. Shit's gone to hell. Declared another curfew tonight on account of a fight over in Alexandria."

"Saviors?"

"Kid and his dad were getting into it. But yeah. The Saviors came. Roughed up a few people, but not as bad as it could've been. Especially given what happened last time they were there." Heath snorts. "Nice work on that, by the way. Your grand plan fucked shit up _fast_."

Paul shrugs, realizes that the cameras might pick it up, so he continues the motion into a stretch. 

"It _happened_ fast. He was going to bash a guy's head in with a _wrench_."

"That's what Dwight said."

"Thought he was one of Negan's."

"He is and he ain't. So far, he's the only one making Negan see any sort of reason why it's too risky to start drafting _all_ of AdSec into their happy little shitstorm, but I dunno how long he'll be able to hold it off. Saviors pretty much have complete control of AdSec as it _is_ , and now it's official. Right now, Admin's watching out their windows and starting to shit themselves."

"What's going on with the Council?"

"They're trying to reel their new Governor in. So far, to no avail. It's looking like we're gonna have martial law declared before the weekend's out."

"Shit." If that's true, everything Deanna had said about Negan's position getting a hell of a lot more stronger will follow immediately. "Anyone get killed yet?"

"Uh, just the two, I think. More people checking in to SciMed than usual, and a whole lot more too terrified to leave their quarters. At least in Admin."

"He make a move on Admin yet?" 

"Aside from marching his people back and forth from AdSec to here, not yet." Heath pauses, sounding worried when he adds, "Engineering and Research neither, so far."

Turning back to look at the sink, he's suddenly certain. "Won't stay that way for long." 

"You think?"

Casually, he risks a glance back through the glass to find Heath staring back at him over his comms unit. The screen's casting the lower parts of his face and visor in green and blue. It makes him look ill. 

\--- 

_Saturday, 05/10/2194, 01:04_

_Get the fuck up, Darleena, you've had fucking worse_.

Daryl'd spent years following along with every one of Merle's stupid ideas, from every brawl he'd ever started, to stealing that car back in Georgia, to crawling out to the ass-end of the universe to start the whole damned cycle going again. 

Thing is, it wasn't his brother's fault. Ain't like he can blame him for this. And shit, at least back then, Merle'd had his back. Right now, there ain't nobody coming to bail him out of this shit fuck of a stupid idea. His left eye's swollen shut, and his hip's screaming at him from where the boots kept finding him, but he's pretty sure nothing's broken, even if it feels like his stomach's crawled all the way back up his throat. 

He laughs, suddenly, even though it hurts, sends his back grinding into the concrete floor beneath him, because nothing's ever felt this _familiar_. Not in a long goddamned time. 

They hadn't, he realizes, intended on doing him any permanent damage. It's just for show. Most of their blows had been to his face, meant to mark but not maim, though they probably wouldn't have stopped on account of a broken jaw. Their kicks- mostly to his right leg- had hurt like a bitch, but it's not like any of them had thought to direct them anywhere they could've broken bones. 

They want him mobile, then. 

Or shit, maybe he's just tellin' himself shit to pass the time. Like back when he'd realized that slaps meant that he'd be riding along with Dad and Merle on the trip into town the next morning, or the belt meant that he'd be too busy hiding out of sight to be wrangled out in front of anybody. Cigarette burns only happened in winter, when long sleeves could hide them, but it was predictable. A known quantity. 

He's not sure if them shoving him in here and piling in with their fists and their boots had meant to spook him or make some more specific point, but Negan himself had clocked him in the eye almost carefully, saying something about, _this one ain't for you_ , but he'd been too distracted by the impact to really listen. 

They've been gone for a while, though, and this cement floor's not getting any warmer. They'd taken his boots and his coveralls, as well as all the shit he'd figured they'd take out of his pockets, including his credit chip, which for now is a problem that's going to have to wait. Sitting up, he takes a quick assessment of the damage- bruising and scrapes mostly, though it's getting harder to tell which ones came when, lately - and scoots back against the wall. 

He knows he's in AdSec's briefing hall, but with the way they'd dragged him in, forcing his head down the whole way, he's not too clear of the internal layout. He's in a closet, though, even if it's empty; the LED's ringing the ceiling are the same as the ones in the Techniki hall. No shelves, though. There _is_ a cot; bamboo and lashed together with duct tape and a tarp, that looks like it could be taken apart, though the effort might outweigh the results. He ends up with a stick of bamboo, it's not going to do a whole lot against their blasters. 

Fuck. He should've told Carl that. Just in case. 

Disassembling the cot would give the game away, anyhow. Right now, they want him cowed, and just because there's a significant part of him that's actually feeling that way, doesn't mean he can't play along. 

He can hear a few Saviors- or who knows maybe they're still AdSec, and maybe it's never really mattered anyway- talking outside. Mostly complaining about food and the shitty selection of options down at the vid shop. They sound bored as hell, but awake. 

This was his fucking idea, and he's got no idea what he's supposed to do next. Considers the cot- it looks sturdy enough, but making assumptions regarding what's his to use and what ain't without asking will just earn him more hassle than it's probably worth. Until he gets some sort of orders, he figures sleeping while he can's as good a plan as any. 

The floor's still damned cold, though. 


	18. Chapter 18

_Saturday, 05/10/2194, 07:00_

"Get your ass up."

He opens his eyes- his left one hurts- to find Simon glaring down on him like he's a dog that's just pissed on the floor. 

"Here's how it's gonna be going forward," he says, sounding bored. "You're up and ready to go before we open this door every morning. We run past the head, hit the chow line, and you're in line, ready for inspection and briefing, by 7:30. You'll get your orders, and you'll follow them, and for every day you manage to not fuck shit up, you'll see your station in life improved. Every time you do fuck shit up, we make an example of you. If, at that point, you try any sort of jack move, we drag you out to Alexandria and we make an example of _them_. Is that crystal fucking clear?"

"Yeah." Telegraphing every movement, he gets to his feet. Figures if Simon wants him wearing shoes, he'll mention it. 

He doesn't. 

Daryl walks carefully, willing the stiffness out of his back and legs, as he's led out to the bathhouse. It's got the same layout as the other enclaves- the same showers and toilets and washing machines- but there's graffiti on some of the stalls, like you'd see at truck stops back in Georgia. 

He relieves himself. Crosses over to wash his hands and splash some water on his face. He hadn't brought a towel, but his shirt works just as well, and what he's really wishing he had right now is a toothbrush. But there's no point moping about it, so he crosses back over to where Simon's waiting. 

Outside, Ed's standing there with that fuck Dwight. Neither of them look back at him as they fall into step, flanking him on either side as Simon follows behind. 

He's shoved ahead of Ed at the chowline, which is familiar enough that he gets coffee and some grub lined up without much having to think about it. Downs it quickly, the way Ed and Dwight are doing. By the time Simon's finished and is standing up, he's been ready to go for ten minutes. 

They go back to the AdSec briefing hall, but there are more people here, now, and Daryl's sure he's not the only one noticing how tense shit feels. There's AdSec sitting there in their clean uniforms, helmets polished, visors up, and there's Saviors in tattered half-uniforms. There're a few who aren't wearing uniforms at all, carrying helmets under their arms. 

There are a lot of people looking warily at a lot of other people, and they're all armed. And while it's nice to blend in to the confusion, it's not exactly encouraging. Orders are orders, and martial law's martial law, but one spark and this whole damn place is going to burn up. 

He's keeping his eyes down, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but he can feel someone looking at him. Without raising his eyes, he glances up. About twenty feet away, there are legs and boots, non AdSec issue, pointing right at him. A moment later, when he glances again, they're still there. 

He looks up, just as a wave goes through the room and people start moving to find a seat. Loses them for a moment, but finds them again, quickly. There, down by the front, under a helmet that's starting to turn away, is Sasha. 

\--- 

After that, it's hard not to keep looking for her. There ain't no point in harboring much hope that he's going to get a chance to talk to her, not in a room like this and not without knowing what the hell's going on with her first. And now that Simon's seen fit to hand Daryl off to his asshole handlers, Dwight and Ed, it's not like he's going to get the chance. 

Negan comes up from the back of the room and turns to address the group. 

"First order of business is getting the newbies introduced and squared away, and then we'll move on to the important stuff," he says. "So, everyone, I'd like to introduce you to our latest comrade, Dogboy Daryl Dixon." It's disturbing, the way he locks onto Daryl's position in the crowd so quickly. "Stand up, boy, give us a smile." 

There's laughter from a few of the Saviors as Ed tugs him to his feet. Sasha, Daryl notices, is not among the amused. She's not even looking at him; her eyes are locked on Negan, face blank. 

"Now, I know you've heard it _all before_ ," Negan drawls, "but the standard operational procedure does apply. Daryl's green, like a lot of you have been, so to all of you who've joined us lately, congrat-u-fucking-lations, you're no longer low man on the totem pole. Now that you've moved up in the world, you're responsible for making sure _Daryl_ here..."

"Toes the fucking line," the crowd chants back at him, right on cue. It's fucking terrifying. It's not made less so when off to his left, a Savior backhands an older woman from Ag, presumably because she hadn't spoken loudly enough. 

"Ex _actly_ ," Negan beams, then looks at Dwight. "All right. Dogboy, as ecstatic as I am to get you in play back in Alexandria, you just ain't fuckin' earned it yet. So you, Dwight and your man Ed are going to go head on over to SciMed, talk some sense into those stuffy fuckers and get us some of those shiny blue badges. One will do, two or more is better. You understand?"

"Yes sir," Dwight and Ed say, before Dwight elbows him in the arm. 

"Yes sir," Daryl says. 

"And what are you gonna do?"

Dwight hums, the intonations familiar. Telling him what he needs to say.

He takes a breath. Says, "Toe the fucking line," and Negan beams.

Sasha's looking at him now, her eyes sad. Disappointed, maybe. If she gives that much of a damn, it could mean that she might not have turned completely. Or it could just mean that she knows that she's sold out. Looking around here, there don't seem to be a whole lot of people who seem all that happy in their own skin, besides Negan. 

"All right, you fuckers are dismissed, now go out there and make me proud. Or at least earn yourself some shoes and a goddamned shower, you're pathetic to fucking look at." 

Some of the Saviors are laughing. Most aren't. It looks like laughing's a right that needs to be earned. 

He lets himself be shoved out of the hall; it almost feels like he's escaping, even if he is leaving Sasha in there with the rest of those cult show fuckers. 

Still, it's a relief to be outside, walking again. At least until the gravel starts digging into his feet. 

\---

"All right, you know the deal. You do a good job in here, and you keep out of the yard." Dwight reminds him. Nobody's told him what the yard is, but only a fucking dense asshole would ask for details. "You do a bad job in there, and we're making a field trip."

It's fucked up, seeing people scatter. It's more fucked up that they're doing it, if not on account of him, then on account of the two assholes he's walked in here with. It's _incredibly_ fucked up, realizing that they're going to keep prowling the halls until someone's cornered or stands up to face them. 

It's an attendant that they corner first. He's too freaked out to do more than nod at everything Dwight's telling him. About how the hospital is no longer considered neutral ground. That harboring criminals is, in and of itself, a criminal act per the Governor's orders. 

"No more hiding the injured," Dwight says, his monotone almost sounding reasonable. "Saviors and AdSec are to be granted full access. And I know that's hard to swallow, but the fact of the matter is this. It'll go more easily with everyone if we can be assured of SciMed's cooperation."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Daryl turns to find Ed already stalking towards Denise, who's got a tablet in her hand and a furious expression on her face. 

"That guy's an idiot," Ed's telling Dwight. "We need to talk to someone who matters, around here."

Denise, though, she's staring right at Daryl, her upper lip curling into a snarl. 

" _Again_ , she says, cutting her glare over to Dwight. "What the hell's going on?"

"We need assurance that SciMed will cooperate with the new provisions that Governor Monroe's setting out. And we're also going to need a few security badges."

"Well you should've thought of that before storming in here like a bunch of jackbooted deputized _assholes_ ," she says, then rolls her eyes. "Besides. We get them from _your_ department, remember? Or has it been so long since you've _actually_ been security that you've forgotten your training?"

Ed's already got a hand on his holstered blaster, but Dwight pats him on the back as he steps past.

"Put it down, man," he tells him, leaving Denise open to round on Daryl. 

"Daryl, are you all right? Also what the fuck's _wrong_ with you?"

Before he can even start figuring out how to answer either of those questions, Ed shoves ahead of Dwight and shoves her into the wall.

"Just so we're clear," Ed says, leaning close and grabbing her by the shoulders in a grip that she could probably break free from, were she not so terrified. "You're not cooperating?"

"Ed, man. This is _not_ how we're doing this," Dwight says, grabbing him by the back of his coveralls and shoving him down to the ground. "Give me your sidearm. And don't fucking forget how this whole pecking order goes. You're first in the yard this afternoon as it is. Try shit like that again, and it'll only make matters worse."

The fight goes out of Ed almost immediately, as he hands his blaster over, and Denise goes from stunned to horrified and angry all over again.

"If that's what's been filling up our waiting room every goddamned afternoon," she says, "it might not be in your best interest to fuck with those that're keeping your asses alive."

"Shut up," Dwight says, shaking his head and swiveling it back at Daryl as he shoves Ed's blaster into his pocket. "Grab her, man. She's coming with us."

The attendant, hands up, pressing himself against the wall, musters the courage to ask, "Where're you taking her?"

"Well, she's got a point. She's a doctor. Might be a pain in the ass, but they're hard to replace." Dwight turns to Daryl, raising his eyebrows. "So fucking _grab_ her, and follow me." 

He looks at Denise, grimaces something that he hopes looks like an apology without being too obvious as he tries to figure out where to put his hands, but Dwight's grabbing the badge Ed had dropped, doesn't see anything anyway.

"Daryl?" She's looking up at him like she's about to start crying if she doesn't see something she needs on his face, but he's got nothing to offer her. Far as he can tell, at least Dwight's trying to run this shit smoothly, even if the shit's total _shit_. 

"C'mon. It's all right. Know it's fucked, but it could be worse, all right?"  
He's not lying, but he is, but he's not. And it's a relief when Dwight glares back at the both of them. 

"No fucking talking. _Either_ of you."

\--- 

The brig's situated on the boundary between the Admin enclave and the AdSec training yard, and though Daryl hasn't been there in a few years, he can't help but notice the roundabout path they're taking, heading up along the western side, then rounding back to cut across the plaza. Can't think of any reason for it, neither. Not until they're actually doing so. There are probably three dozen Admin squints scattered around, but nearly all of them are wearing expressions he's used to seeing on Techniki faces. Their suits, he thinks, are too damn clean to look that worried, and then it hits him. 

_They're looking at me_. 

He tries not to look back. Tries not to look too hard at his hand on Denise's shoulder. Just keeps walking, following Dwight inside. 

"Hey, Dawn, We need this one booked. Doctor Denise Cloyd."

"Sublevel one or two?"

"Does it fucking matter?"

"Sublevel two is still being cleared," the guard says, looking nervous even before Dwight rolls his eyes.

"Then fucking hell, then I guess we'll go with Sublevel one. Is the whirlpool suite available or should I have made a fucking reservation?

Dwight must've been Earthside, at some point, to be talking like that. But the guard's just nodding, tapping something into the computer on her bamboo and plastic desk, before heading over to the heavy steel door. 

"Ed, you're with us." Dwight turns to Daryl, moving to follow the guard down. "You stay here. Anyone comes walking in, you tell them we'll be right back."

It's not until the door's swinging shut behind him that it occurs to Daryl to question the order. 

He could run. Make a break for it. Cut straight through the square, and-

-and what? There's no place to go. People and cameras everywhere, and AdSec crawling all over the place. They'd catch up to him quick. 

So he waits. Goes so far as to make his way behind the desk and look at the computer. There's cameras on him, though, and he doesn't have anything to tell Rick, yet, that he can't find out through the grapevine. So he doesn't touch it. 

He just stands there, feeling like a goddamned asshole, and waits for Dwight and Ed to return.


	19. Chapter 19

_Saturday, 05/10/2194, 09:33_

He'd been half-asleep when the Saviors- two men and one woman, today- had come to drag him out of his cell. He'd been too startled and too aware of the blaster pointing at him to even question why they were marching him left instead of right. 

He hadn't resisted- he'd _wanted_ to, but his brain just wasn't working quickly enough. 

He hadn't fought. He'd kept his eyes on the floor in front of him as the concrete gave way to tile, and hadn't bothered looking away from the drain in the middle of the room. It was rusted; a red-brown gritty stain in a blinding white room. He'd heard the door closing behind them, and for a minute he'd just stood there, waiting. 

Something had felt inevitable. And then they'd struck. The woman in the group- taller, and meaner- had shoved him forward. Ordered him to strip, and to _clean the fuck up_. When he hadn't moved, and she'd repeated the question, the man covering the door had moved towards him. He'd gotten to work, taking off his shirt, first, and the man had stopped, given him a bored nod.

They'd watched impassively as he got undressed, and as he'd stepped under the not-freezing, not-warm water. Drawing some soap from the wall dispenser, he'd taken a breath and a calculated risk, and he'd turned his back on them. 

He'd kept his face in the stream as he washed, tried to convince himself that everything was fine, that it was just him, in here. That there weren't three armed Saviors, in boots and piecemeal armor watching his every move. Waiting for him to fuck up. 

The water had cut out, and he'd turned around to find the woman just a few feet away, shoving a towel into his hands. They'd given him clean clothes- socks, underwear, pants, shirt- all in the same washed-out gray-white. They'd watched him comb his hair. 

He'd brushed his teeth for the first time in three days, and he'd been so damned grateful that he'd had to pretend to choke on the toothpaste because _that_ would've been preferable to sobbing. 

He'd pulled it together by the time he'd had to spit, and he'd followed them back towards his cell. 

He'd let himself be locked in. He'd nearly _thanked_ them. 

The 'culturalist woman in the cell down the way, she'd started screaming, when it had been her turn. She'd kept it up the whole damned time, until it had cut off into nothing, suddenly.

\--- 

His hair's still damp and his mouth still tastes faintly like toothpaste, but it's still too early for lunch, as far as he can tell. And there are too many footsteps, moving too fast, too chaotically. 

The guard who'd brought him breakfast- Dawn- is passing by, and she's got Dwight and one of the Alexandrian men close on her heels. Really, though, it's the person they've got between them that's making him nervous. 

It's Denise. Dr. Cloyd. They're shoving her into the cell next door. He can see her faint reflection in the window of the cell across the way. She doesn't seem injured, just angry. 

It's bad that she's down here- really bad, if it means the Saviors have started coming down on SciMed this hard- but Paul's been stuck down here for several days. He's gone from having level 5 clearance to having to glean information from jail cell reflections. She'll be able to tell him what's going on. 

He's distracted enough that he doesn't even move when the Saviors walk past. But then Dwight stops short, eyes meeting his, his one remaining eyebrow raised. 

"Holy shit," he says, laughing. But then his eyes dart back to the left, down towards the slowly filling cell block, and he turns to the guard. 

"Gonna need to get the dampeners running." He's looking through the glass at Paul again, but not speaking to him. "Shit's starting to fill up, and nobody's down here for social hour."

Dawn laughs distractedly, and the three of them continue on their way. 

It's two, maybe three minutes, and he's just about to call out to Denise- she's sitting on her bunk, head in her hands- when he notices the hum. 

It's coming from the walls. He can't make out the source; it's like the entire room is vibrating. Even the glass, when he looks again, is shaking. 

He'd seen the occasional note regarding the sound dampeners in the daily reports, but they'd never made it into his department's job queue, so he's never had a first-hand look at them. Doesn't even know how it works, just that he can't hear anything besides the hum. Even the sound of his own voice, when he self-consciously tests it, seems to die in the air between his mouth and his ears. It's barely noticeable, but it's there. Or, rather, _not_.

He can still see himself in the reflection, mouth moving but maybe he's only pretending to talk just to fuck with his own head. He looks like a fish out of water. Feels, for a moment, like he's suffocating. 

Next door, Denise is starting to look like she's noticing that something's off. But her mouth's not gaping, she's not calling out yet. Maybe she hasn't noticed, maybe she has. Maybe it's not even turned on in her cell, it's not like he can ask her. 

Still tries, though. Twice more. He stops halfway through the third, and he doesn't try again. But it's making him nervous. Not so much the hum filling every last bit of space in his ears, but how easily they'd _done_ it. 

It's not full sensory deprivation. His feet are still cold, his hair is still damp against his neck. Nothing is physically harming him. The lights are on. He can still see. He can breathe. There's water in the sink. He just needs to stay calm. Try sleeping again, maybe. Wait it out. He needs to not panic. He's alive, he's unhappy, but he's more or less safe.

He tells himself these things, but he can't hear the words. 

\--- 

 _Saturday, 05/10/2194, 12:20_

He's throwing his mostly uneaten lunch in the composter when he hears Negan calling out from down the way. 

"My man _Daryl_ ," he says, passing by the tables and cutting through the mess line to reach him. He's got Simon trailing behind, looking as consistently angry as Negan never does. 

"Congratulations," Negan stops in front of him and claps him on the shoulder. "Dwight just reported in. Told me _several_ interesting things about your first morning out. I mean, three badges would've been better than two, but at least you didn't flip your fucking shit like our boy Ed, there."

Ed's _nowhere_ , Daryl realizes, not since Dwight had hauled him off when they'd gotten back to the enclave. Negan grins, continuing more quietly, apparently no longer needing to make a big to-do over whatever he's got to say next. "Now, in return for your passing this morning's tests with flying colors, I've got a reward lined up for you. It's one that I'm sure you'll find edifying. So, you're done now? Head over to the training yard. Find a seat, and enjoy the show."

\--- 

He's done as he's told, and from the looks of it, so have several others- AdSec, Savior, and everyone in between. They're filtering through the fence he'd helped fix last year, up onto the bleachers, none of them seeming enthusiastic about it. That asshole Dwight isn't wearing any expression at all, as he patrols the gray-brown yard in front of them, keeping count, apparently, of the people in the stands and speaking into his comms. After what feels like an eon, he heads for the entrance and falls into step when Simon and Negan come through. 

Behind them are six Saviors. The first is Ed, hands tied in front of him, wide eyed and staring at nothing in particular as he's shoved forward. He looks like he's about to piss himself, which is a good look for a shitstain like him. The four others- one is in full AdSec gear, minus the helmet; the other two are in plainclothes- are more varied in their demeanors. One of them is actually grinning, like he knows that whatever bad scene's coming, he's going to be pulling out of it just fine. 

"All right, everyone, you know the drill by now." Negan says, addressing the crowd from the field. "First in the yard is the first target, and gets a five second head start on the chasers. Last man standing gets a pass on drills for the rest of the week. Anyone _not_ standing, well, we cart their sorry pathetic asses over to SciMed." Negan pauses to survey the crowd. "Though today _really_ might be something special. You see, today, we've got Ed Peletier, who just this morning took it upon himself to _not only_ buck his orders and disrupt the chain of command, he made enemies of the very people who will most likely be responsible for putting Humpty Dumpty's sorry ass back together again. If any of you fucks have a proper appreciation for irony, I predict you'll find this afternoon's entertainment right up your tiny fucking alleys."

With that, Negan takes a seat down at the front, while Dwight and Simon take the spots just behind him. Down below, a few of the Saviors are shoving Ed- hands still bound- into the middle of the yard, leaving him to stand there at a line one of them is carving into the ground with the heel of his boot. 

The two Saviors take their seats down in front of Negan, who raises a hand, and all around Daryl, the bleachers erupt into one unified shout- "Toe the fucking line!"-  
and apparently, that's all the signal that's needed. Ed begins to run, hands still bound. 

Five second later, the others take off like a shot, run after him, and attack. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/12/2194, 12:30_

Saturday, they'd given him shoes and a blanket.

Yesterday, they'd let him take a shower, and when he'd stepped out there'd been a fresh change of clothes waiting for him underneath a clean towel. All it had cost him was three hours going over grappling drills in the yard, and ten minutes standing guard in the doorway as Simon explained to Maggie's father that inventory spot checks would be starting this week, and that any attempts at obfuscation would be met with unpleasantness.

He'd gone to bed that night, clean under his new blanket- and on the cot again since Simon'd made it an order- and he'd tried to convince himself that had all been necessary. Hershel, Maggie and Beth looking at him like he was scum hadn't actually hurt as much as boots and fists tended to. And really, all it had meant was that he'd been selling his part. 

Today, Negan's promising him, he's shaping up to get moved into an actual room, with a bed and furniture and a place to store his shit. The fact that it had been New Kid's up until this morning goes without saying. Daryl wouldn't be leading him into the yard to get the shit kicked out of him were it any other way. 

New Kid's not first in the yard, but fuck, it's rough watching him get swarmed the moment the day's biggest fuckup's twitching on the ground. He'd figured out quickly enough, the first day, that watching the fight happen doesn't preclude being watched in return, so he keeps his eyes where Negan wants them: squarely on New Kid. 

He'd never liked New Kid, but he's starting to _hate_ him, now, just for making him sit here and watch him take in every punch and kick. If the Kid had just kept it together, gotten out of Negan's way in the chow line this morning, it would be someone else down there. Maybe someone Daryl didn't know or recognize or have to half-care about. 

Equally bad, though, is that New Kid doesn't go down quickly. He holds his own against two guys twice his size, 'cause he's faster than them. And the longer he holds out, the longer Daryl has to sit here, staring at it all. 

His eyes track the motion down in the yard, but his brain checks out. Starts thinking, _really_ about just what it is that Negan's got planned for his afternoon that's so important they're dangling an entire _bedroom_ over it. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/12/2194, 13:59_

"A little bird with a fucked up beak told me you were down here," Negan says, leaning casually against the glass of the empty cell opposite Paul's. "Would've been down to visit earlier, but Dwight thought you might need to rest up, first."

In the next cell over, Denise is standing just a few centimeters from the glass, watching them with a blank expression on her face. The Admin squint- _Rovia_ \- on the other hand, looks like he's just heard _words_ for the first time in his life. He looks _relieved_ , so much so that Daryl'd be wondering if he's going to start bawling any second now, as the expression warps into something harder right before his eyes. 

"Now," Negan says, "I _know_ you and me have unfinished business, on account of the events that brought you down here."

"What are _you_ doing down here? You know Deanna's got to be here if you're looking to start an interrogation."

"One, she's welcome to join us, though I've been finding, recently, that Admin and _especially_ the Council seem a little bit more tepid about nailing everyone to the fine print, the past few days. And two, this isn't an interrogation. It's an offer."

"Whatever it is, I'm not-"

"Shut the fuck up, _Paul_ ," Negan says, smirking sideways at Simon. "Fuck, is there any way we can spare ourselves his whining, or am I stuck with it?"

"The dampeners work both ways, or not at all."

"Fucking hell, _that_ there's a real fucking stroke of engineering genius." He grins at Daryl on his way to Rovia. "See, I've been thinking, with the Council being as useful and shortsighted as they always are, they fucked up. Kept you out of play. And yeah, you and me ain't exactly _even_ lately, but hey, lucky for you, you just happen to be in a position to claw your way back up into my good graces."

"Like I said. Not. Interested."

"Aw, c'mon, don't be a fucking coward. It's boring. You want out of this cell? Want to walk free and hear music and the laughter of children- not yours, I mean. Obviously, I'm being fucking metaphorical now and don't honestly think you've suddenly gotten it into your head to start fucking anything you can impregnate. But fuck it, new day, new you, anything could happen. Maybe you and her-" he waves his fingers towards Denise's cell- "will get get through this and get it into your heads to start playin' doctor."

Daryl doesn't look. Doesn't want to see her seein' him here. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the point just past Rovia's wincing shoulder. 

"But I'm getting ahead of myself again," Negan continues. "What's going to happen, right now, is one of two things. Either you come and work for me, help me get this rock full of idiots operating at something _resembling_ the work of capable adults, or you continue to waste away down here screaming just to hear yourself think."

"Why do you think I'd help you?"

"Look, Rovia, word's out. You worked your ass off, coming up with a plan for the colony to reach full self-sufficiency. But the Council's hoarding your report, releasing parts of it only when they see fit to, and never at the same time. They ain't letting anyone else in on it. It's not just their own noses they're cutting off, there's a lot of faces getting spited, here."

"You've heard so much about my work, why don't you go and ask the people who told you about it for the details?"

That tone he's taking isn't going to do him any good, Daryl realizes. There are some smiles that just aren't worth earning, and Negan's is bloody. 

"Because Spencer's a goddamned, genuine, certified _moron_ who thinks that as long as he holds the plans, he's in control, and because you ask questions like _that_. Cutting through the bullshit, I like that." Negan stands up straight and nods along with his own words. "Fucking smart, you are, least when you're not being churlish. You really ought to keep an eye on that. Shit like _that_ leaves you stuck in a soundproofed cell while the war you and started drops bodies without you. I know you ain't a coward. Wouldn't think you'd fucking stand for that."

"You want me to work with you, you stop going to war."

And if Rovia keeps _this_ shit up, he's going to wind up first in the yard. 

"Oh. No, see, you haven't earned a spot at the table yet, kid. I'm telling you how it's going to be. You're going to come out here, spill all the details that're gonna keep people still breathing up here, and then, _maybe_ , you and me can start working out arrangements. I mean, wouldn't it be a shame if someone, you know, vital to the cause, accidentally got killed on account of us not knowing they were important? Cause I gotta say, the odds of that happening are getting better by the day." 

Negan finally goes quiet, studying Rovia, his eyes narrowing. Rovia, for his part, doesn't move, just glares back at him. Eventually Negan shrugs at Simon, then turns back to Daryl, apparently having made his decision. 

"All right, then. Daryl, head up there and have Dwight hit the dampeners. We need to let the man think in peace. Give him time for his brain to kick in and start thinking smart."

He nods- not looking anywhere near Rovia's direction- and does as he's told. Goes up the stairs. Behind him, he hears Negan adding, "Talk to you tomorrow, kid. I'm sure we'll _all_ be looking forward to hear what you've got to say."

Upstairs, aware of Simon and Negan moving more slowly up the stairs behind him, he tells Dwight, "Negan says to turn the dampeners back on." 

Eight words, he realizes later, and he's earned his own room. Simple as that.


	20. Chapter 20

_Tuesday, 05/13/2194, 07:02_

The window in his room has shutters, but they're original build; they do their job, and so he doesn't realize how dark it's actually gotten outside until he's gotten them open. It's not that the sun's gone down any more than it should've; there's a windstorm outside. Someone- maybe Rick, maybe Glenn- already has the drone swarm up and running, identifying potential points of weakness in the membrane and injecting stabilizer gel wherever it's dropping below 99.8 percent efficiency. So far, they're merely monitoring; there's nothing to worry about yet.

At least not up there. Inside, down here on the ground, it's another matter entirely. 

He knows what Negan's game is, dragging him along to talk with Rovia. The man's creative about twisting knives. A few days ago, Rovia had saved his fucking life. And now Daryl's paying him back by parading around with Negan, jumping to his every whim. 

Because here's the thing. Freedom ain't free, it just gets transferred around and paid out in increments. Rovia's stuck in a soundproof cell; he'd be there anyway even if Daryl hadn't told Dwight to turn them on. And so far, Negan's been keepin' his word. Things are starting to get easier. Sure, he's still got guards on his door, but fewer than there'd been yesterday. He's starting to hear things that might lead to something useful, something worth reporting back. 

He just has to ride it out a while longer. 

Rovia ain't his problem. Can't be. 

Today, it's Jody waiting on the other side of the door for him, clearly as eager for all this guard rotation shit to end as he is. She nods her head towards the exit and follows behind him, not seeming at all interested in conversation, but it's not like there's much to talk about. He knows how this works, now. Bathroom, breakfast, then the briefing hall. Already the routine's familiar.

That is, until Sasha slides into the chow line just behind him. He almost doesn't notice, until her tray slides against his, causing him to glance over. Then away again, but Jody's joking with the cooks and isn't paying any attention. 

There are close to a hundred Saviors out here, and no telling how many cameras, but somehow, Sasha's managed to step into line right next to him without raising any alarms. Then again, she doesn't have guards tracking her every move. 

For all he knows, she's _one_ of them now. 

She keeps her voice low, pretends to be scoping out the eggs and bread, though there are rarely any surprises there. "You all right?" 

He grunts. He's alive, and resists the urge to look around to see if anyone's watching. 

"What about you? People're worried."

"Shouldn't be." She relaxes, slightly, and it could be that she's been as worried, seein' him around here than he's been about her. "I made my choice. Nothing against them. Just saw which way the wind was blowing."

Her foot's knocking into the side of his, though, before the words settle down too hard over him; it's the same pattern they use on the pipes in Alexandria, and, more importantly, it's the first indication she's given that she's still on their side. But it's also a warning. The line moves forward- he gets eggs, then toast, then coffee- and waits for Jody to tell him which table she's assigning him to. 

Jody's just staring at him, though.

"What?"

"You didn't take your juice."

It's not juice, really. Part of it's from concentrate, and it tastes more like oranges than it does anything else, but it's gritty and thin, thanks to the blend of other crap they've got to put in it to keep everyone from dying of malnutrition up here. He can only stomach the stuff a few times a week, and so far, he's still standing. 

But it's not an argument worth starting. So he reaches back, grabs a glass and pours himself some from the machine next to the coffee tank. It gives him an excuse to glance back at Sasha, who rolls her eyes and snorts. 

He doesn't realize that he's still grinning- apparently it doesn't take as much to get him started, these days- until he turns around to find Simon standing three feet away, watching him suspiciously. 

"Move it along," Simon tells him and Jody, loudly enough that he's meaning for everyone to hear it. "Briefing's in fifteen."

\--- 

_Tuesday, 05/13/2194, 08:00_

On the other side of the colony, Rick's probably delegating water pump and airlock job tickets, and grumbling about the resurgence of Half-Centennial prep work showing up in the queue. 

On this side, Daryl's watching two new recruits being introduced at the hall, and now that Daryl's been through this a few times, he's got his lines down. He speaks when the others speak; when Negan speaks, he's silent. 

As Negan doles out the assignments, Daryl manages to learn a few things. First off is that Sasha's crew- they're Dockside, mostly still AdSec, apparently, -are stationed far away enough from everything that it would explain why nobody's seeing her lately. They've got her and the rest of her crew running an inventory on fuel cells, to see if it really matches with what Dockside had reported. 

More importantly, though, Negan's putting recruitment on hold. That, too, is worth getting back to Rick, as soon as he gets the chance. 

Continuing down his list of orders, Negan stops to remind the newer recruits about the rate of exchange. So far, they're all familiar enough. Blankets and shoes, showers and clothes. Better living quarters. The ongoing safety of their loved ones, and, failing everything else, a guest-of-honor invitation to the yard. 

Listening to Negan's smug drone, he's hoping that there'll be some other project that'll allow him to fade out of notice for long enough to get a message through to Rick. He's expecting, honestly, that he's just going to be waved into one of the larger groups and told to go to report to patrol until it's time for what Negan calls the _daily yardwork_. 

Negan calls him out by name, though, and that's never good. 

"Dixon," Negan calls his name, so he stands up, almost without thinking. "You're with me, so don't fucking go anywhere. As far as the rest of you fuckers go, if you were training yesterday, you're on the inventory project. If you were on inventory yesterday, you're reporting to the yards today, nice and fucking easy." He grins. "Alright, assholes, what're you going to do today?"

Daryl chants _Toe the fucking line_ , right along with everyone. He stays where he is as the briefing hall empties out, and he tries not to watch as Simon and Dwight pull off to the side to confer, heads down. But there's nothing else to look at. He's the last one in here, now, aside from them. 

When he sees Negan heading into the back with Simon, and Dwight breaking off to head towards him, he lets himself relax, just a bit. Dwight's a fucking asshole, but he's not _Negan_ , not by a long shot. 

But Dwight's not making any move to lead him out of there or explain anything, he just nods once at him and stands there, waiting with him. Underneath all the scarring, he looks concerned, almost worried. There's no point in guessing why- could be any number of things, and the odds are good that Daryl's at the bottom of Dwight's list- and anyway, it's only a minute or so before Negan's boots come clomping back into the room. 

There's an echo in here, Daryl realizes, as Dwight takes his hands from his pockets and straightens up. Daryl follows suit, though not having the same rank, he keeps his eyes trained at shoulder level. 

Any higher, he'd be meeting Negan's eyes before he's demanded it. 

Any lower, he'd be staring at the wrench he's got in his hands.


	21. Chapter 21

_Tuesday, 05/13/2194, 10:47_

Paul can't tell if he's slept, or if his dreams had been thoughts. It's getting harder to keep track, down here. It's morning, he's fairly certain. 

The hum is constant, working through his brain, vibrating just enough to shake his thoughts apart. He can't _focus_ , can't keep a thought in his head for more than a few seconds. He thinks about getting clean again- his skin feels greasy, his hair feels worse whenever he tries detangling it with his fingers- and then he remembers Denise in the next room; he should try to get her attention but she's looking the wrong way and the absence of noise whenever he calls her name cut bad enough last time that he's not going to do it again. 

He keeps smelling scotch, and he doesn't know why. There's none down here, no open bottle under his bunk; he's looked more than once, feeling like a fool every time. 

Last night- maybe it had been last night- he'd been listening through the wall as Heath and Negan talked about attacking SciMed; down at the end of the corridor, he'd heard Daryl and Simon laughing.

When he concentrates on ordering his thoughts, he knows that none of that had actually happened either- at least, not here. He might not have been wearing the coveralls with the wings on them any more, but his eyes had still been angry enough that the idea of him laughing at much of anything doesn't compute, now that Paul's awake.

Not that he can say that for sure. He'd only caught the man's name for the first time yesterday. 

All this, it's just his head fucking with him, latching onto bad ideas because there's nothing here to distract him. 

The lights never go out, and the hum never stops. 

And then it _does_.

For a moment all he can hear is _actual_ nothing. Then his own breath. The click of his teeth- they feel fuzzy- as he clenches his jaw. 

He clicks his tongue a few times, just to listen to it. There are people coming down the stairs, probably breakfast- maybe lunch, he can't remember what he'd eaten, last, much less when. 

He sits up. Reminds himself to ask if he can get a shower, this time, like he'd meant to the last time. Ignores the fact that he doesn't have much to bargain with, if it comes down to it. 

The door's opening, and Dwight's stepping into his cell.

"Get on your knees," he says, and fuck, Paul's down before he's even had the time to consider it. He doesn't know what's going on- Dwight's never seemed the type to-

-but Dwight's backing away, not going for his zipper, or anything. Paul can't stop himself from laughing. It's fucked up, where your head goes when there's nothing to distract it. The shit you can find yourself being relieved by. 

" _What_ is so damned funny, _Paul_?"

He swings his head up; Negan's stepping into the room as Dwight steps aside. He hadn't seen him come in, hadn't even thought to look for him. 

He goes quiet, keeps his eyes low. Hopes that it'll make up for the fact that he can't make his mouth work, and it seems to, because Negan's not coming any closer. Dwight's feet are covering the door. Past him, there's someone else standing guard in the corridor.

After a moment, Negan clucks his tongue. "Stand the fuck up and look at me." Negan towers over him, shaking his head as he watches him comply. "I gotta say, _Paul_ , you look like shit."

"Feel like it, too." He's more surprised by the sound of his own voice than by the admission, and anyway, it's too late to take the sounds back. 

"Good, seeing as how that was the entire plan. And, in case you were wondering, it's a condition that's going to continue until such time as you manage to dig your head out of your ass." Negan shifts to the side, just enough that Paul can glance past him out into the hallway. It's Daryl, standing out there with a blank face and a wrench- _that_ wrench- in his hands. 

Paul's tugged sideways, suddenly, as Negan slings an arm over his shoulder, wrenching his attention back to where he wants it. 

"So. This is embarrassing, but I gotta say, I made a huge mistake." The admission startles Paul, enough that he turns to look up at Negan, but once he catches that casual grin, his eyes refuse to travel any higher. He smells like soap. "See, I think we've might've been a little unfair, yesterday. Didn't leave you with a proper estimation of your exact station, or options. I figured a day of peace and quiet would get your head on straight- every pun intended, right Paul?"

He exhales, mostly because he's been forgetting to breathe, but it's as much a reply as Negan seems to be looking for. 

"Anyway, looking at you now, I'm kind of wondering if you're not just fifteen minutes away from drawing on the walls with your own shit. And if you go _that_ fucking nuts, you're not going to be much use at all. So. Let's start over. Here are your options. You come and work for me, or we start winding this down to the inevitable fucking conclusion that has me sending my guys to power-wash your bodily fluids out of this cell."

"I can't."

"What's that now?"

"I said. I can't. I can't _help_ you," he says, and either his voice is more forceful than he'd thought he could manage, or he's still not accustomed to hearing it again. It's hard to string his thoughts together- something he needs to- something about a shower? No, the Council. "Pretty sure I lost my clearance. Also pretty sure nobody up there's interested in listening to me."

"Paul, Paul, Paul. _Those_ fuckers up there might not be listening, but I will. I will listen _especially_ closely to anything you've got to say regarding the Council's plans regarding the Sagan RV." Behind them, someone's shuffling their feet, and he tries to turn to look but Negan's grip tightens over his shoulder. "Don't get distracted. We need you to focus here, one hundred and fucking ten percent, all right?"

Hanging his head, he latches onto the command like a lifeline and tries to concentrate. Nobody gives a shit about showers. He should be relieved by that, maybe, given how this is going. 

"Look. It's pretty damned clear that you're down here because those duplicitous fuckers wanted you out of the way when they decided to turn tail. So you might be out of the loop, but they're still cribbing off your notes, you know? You might not know shit about what they're planning to do _with_ the ship, I _know_ you know what it's going to take to get it launched." 

Paul snorts; he can't help it. "Right, because this cell's got a direct line to Dockside and you have nobody on the Council in your pocket."

"If I was stupid enough to trust any of those cowards, whether they're in my pocket or under my boot heel, they'd be leavin' us hanging without anyone being the wiser." Negan snorts. "I go over dockside, start asking questions, we just have a bunch of shitheels trippin' all over one another to sabotage the whole damn thing and _nobody_ is heading out for the Hail Mary pass."

Negan shoves him forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him around to scan his face. 

"You, on the other hand, have a reputation. You're the one who put it all together. It's _your_ people, _your team_ up there, don' all the heavy lifting. With you down here, they're dancing to the Council's tune. If you were up _there_ , though, it would be a hell of a lot easier to make sure that all their hard work isn't for nothing."

That's Negan's angle, then. But it takes him more time than it should to process it. "You want me to go out there, make sure that when the ship's ready to go, you know about it first."

" _Ding ding ding!_ we have a winner. Get the man a prize." Negan looks back at his henchmen, then back at him. "See, you're not a fucking moron."

It's debatable, Paul thinks, as he tries to stop himself from opening his mouth, but he's still thinking it through and if he's speaking it's real, maybe it'll stick in his head like he needs it to. "You get the ship, you go to Earth, and you come back with the cavalry." At this, he can start to see Negan's expression shifting; he glances away. "You're the hero of the hour and are crowned king by a grateful colony."

Negan's not grinning anymore. He looks disappointed, almost tired. "Ain't about thrones, kid. It's about making sure the people in power ain't killing us all." 

The laugh bubbles up unexpectedly; it comes out and he can't stop it. His adrenaline's all over the place and for a minute it feels like he's going to use up all the air, choke on the laughter, drop dead with some rictus grin at Negan's feet. 

It's a funny image, right up until someone- Dwight or Negan- grabs him, shoves him into the glass next to the door, and the charge blasts through his veins and along his nerves, crackling the bones of his feet apart; he's flinching away as quickly as he can but it feels like forever before he can take a single step. 

He's still alive, though. His mouth tastes bloody, but he's still standing, taking deep breaths, trying to get his muscles to respond to his command. Dwight's grabbing him again, moving him back towards the center of the room. 

He'd been within a foot of the open door. Maybe he could've made it. 

Negan's got his hand on his jaw, his thumb just digging into his throat, forcing him to look at him. 

"See, that's what I don't get about you Admin fucks. I come out here with an offer that can drastically improve your situation- I give you a chance to _save this colony_ \- and you decide to lose your shit and get yourself electrocuted instead."

He knows Negan can feel him swallowing the blood down, and he's just too tired, too worn down, too fed up with all of this to care. "Fuck you."

"Fuck _me_ , really?" Negan shoves him back by his throat, and sighs. When Paul manages to focus again, he's shaking his head, nodding a signal to Dwight without breaking eye contact. "Sorry Paul, flattered as I am, you just ain't my type. Who the fuck knows, though. Maybe you'll hit it off with _Daryl_ here." Negan gestures towards the door, but Paul can't make himself look. "Or, well. He'll hit _something_ off of you, at least." The smile's set in now, bright and insane, as he steps back into Paul's space. "Get back on your knees, man. I'm fuckin' _dyin'_ to see how this goes." 

He tells himself he's going to resist. That he's already gone this far and-

-he's already dropping to his knees again anyway, heart pounding in his ears; suddenly dizzy. The floor seems harder than it had been, and the light's too bright. The sound of boots creaking as Dwight shoves Daryl forward is _too loud_.

Negan's stepping back, giving them room.

"Dogboy, I want you to take that wrench, and smash one of the fingers on his left hand. Dealer's choice. One swing should do it; he's going to be crying like a bitch, and we don't have time to go another round."

He can't see Daryl's face. But he doesn't hear him arguing, either. 

"Put your hand on the floor." Dwight crouches down next to him and wrestles his hands from his crossed arms. He's tired, though, and Dwight's too efficient to be bothered by his pathetic resistance, and after a moment his left hand's wrenched out and forced, palm down, onto the concrete. "You stay like that, it'll be your whole hand that gets it." He sounds resigned, but he's gripping Paul's wrist tightly, digging his fingers out from their protective fist one by one, and splaying his hand against the floor. 

"Shut up, Dwight," Negan sing-songs, shoving Daryl into the room and onto his knees; the head of the wrench clanks heavily against the floor but doesn't fall free of his white-knuckled grip. 

"Daryl, don't look like that. One little finger is all that's between you and being _in_ , man. And one little fuckup is all that's between me and Alexandria. I'm willing to overlook your poor choice in meal companions at breakfast this morning- yeah, I heard about that, I did in _deed_ \- but this is what you'd call a motherfucking _order_."

Daryl's swallowing. The wrench drags across the floor as he sits back up on his knees, but he doesn't lift it. For an instant, Dwight's grip loosens, but not so much that he doesn't clamp down again- even harder this time- the moment he feels Paul try to pull away. 

"You know," Negan continues, conversationally, hand going to the blaster on his hip, "your friends, your _family_ , they haven't even done anything _wrong_ since you came over? They're holding up their end of the deal like champs. Rick even brought me that wrench _himself_ , no complaints at all, remember? So do as you're fucking _told_ , and break this squint's uncalloused finger."

Paul's waiting for Daryl to look up, to make eye contact. To send him some sort of signal that he's got a plan, that he's not going to do this. The door's still open behind them, they can maybe surprise-

-Daryl's not looking at him. 

\--- 

As soon as Daryl lifts the wrench, they're going to know that his hands're shaking. 

As soon as he lifts the wrench, he's going to need to bring it down, right there on Rovia's hand. It's just a foot and a half away. 

Negan's at his back. Dwight's holding Rovia down, though. Maybe if he misses, he can catch Dwight's grip, knock him off. 

There's a blaster charging up behind him, less than a foot away from his head. 

He takes a breath. Doesn't feel himself release it. 

As long as he doesn't look at Rovia, he can pull this off. Get it done, get out of here. Earn himself a little bit of freedom and a few more nightmares. Keep the Saviors out of Alexandria. Find a way to take them out. 

He'd known this-or something like it- was coming, ever since Negan had put the wrench in his hand and marched him all over the colony. Over through Alexandria, first, here he hadn't been able to meet anyone's eyes and he hadn't caught anyone tryin' to meet his. 

He'd heard Glenn calling his name, and he hadn't looked up. And he'd seen Rick sweating and furious but contained, carrying the wrench from behind the house. Michonne and Eric had been off to the side, watching and silent. 

In the end, it hadn't mattered that he hadn't been able to get Rick or someone alone long enough to explain things. The wrench in his hand had been all the explanation necessary. Negan had given him a weapon, and he'd kept his back on Daryl almost all morning as they'd marched through the colony, and Daryl hadn't fucking used it on him. Not while Negan was pressing on Hershel to sign over the passwords to the seed banks. Not while they'd collected the yard-injured Saviors from the SciMed. 

Negan had known that, had wanted Alexandria and everyone _else_ to know that, and now Daryl knew it too. 

It's just a fucking finger. 

One finger, against Alexandria.

One finger that belongs to the man who'd gotten in between Daryl's head and the wrench in his hand.

Rovia'd been brave, then. Stupid as hell. But braver than Daryl. 

Now, though, Rovia's twitching. He's fucking scared, and yeah, Daryl knows that feeling, the wait before the beatdown; he doesn't need to look up at him to confirm it. It's not like it'll do any good. 

Ain't like tellin' him, _yeah, I've been there_ is gonna fix this. 

As soon as he drags the wrench closer and picks it up, Rovia flinches, too hard and too sudden for Daryl to remember not to look. He catches him slamming his eyes closed, gritting his teeth, trying to twist back against Dwight. 

There's something nudging at the back of his head- 

"-Fucking _now_ , Dogboy-"

And he brings the wrench down. 

It doesn't feel like anything in particular. Like hitting a shoe, or something. 

There's a full second before anything else happens, but when it does, it happens quickly. 

Rovia whines, back in his throat, jerking himself free from Dwight's grip in a move that might've suited him better two minutes ago. Then Dwight's moving after him, forcing him back to the floor, telling him to stay down as Negan starts laughing. 

There's blood. Not much of it. Just a little, but Rovia's curled so tightly over it, now, that all Daryl can do, for the most part, is imagine it. 

"Get your ass up, Dwight," Negan says, sounding bored, then waves for Daryl to stand. "Both of you. Paul, we'll see you, and your- I'm thinking your wrist- tomorrow."

Dwight's first to his feet, grabbing the wrench before anyone else can get the idea to even try for it. Daryl's still trying to get himself to move. One small swing, and it had taken all the energy he'd had left. 

But he manages, after a second. Manages not to look back at all in Rovia's direction, and gets to his feet. He follows Dwight and Negan out of the cell; as the doors sliding shut behind them, he hears it- a quiet, choked-off sob- and he thinks he's going to be sick. 

Half a breath later, and he _is_ , right there in the hallway. 

"Aw, fer chrissakes," Negan groans. "Dwight, you deal with Dogboy, here, get him over to Simon, and meet me at the hall in twenty. You and I got shit to do."

"You want him first out in the yard?" 

Daryl's straightening himself up, but keeps his head down. Through his hair, he can see Negan's blaster, Dwight's wrench, and his own bad odds. 

"He might've been a sniveling little bitch about it, but he _did_ come through. All the same, we've got a responsibility to reinforce this particular teachable moment, here, so send him in with the chasers." 

Dwight nods, and finally, Negan's turning on his heel and heading for the stairs, but he stops on the bottom step, raising a hand. "Tell them to let him get cleaned up first, though. _That_ kind of pathetic ain't something I want on parade. It's just so damn _demoralizing_ , you know?"


	22. Chapter 22

_Tuesday, 05/13/2194, 11:30_

Curled on the floor, his right hand clamped around his left wrist as if it'll stop the pain from reaching him, Paul keeps his eyes squeezed shut. The Saviors are finally heading up the stairs, having finished cleaning up whatever Daryl'd thrown up.

_Serves him right_ isn't much comfort, but it's something. 

He knows why he's lying here- Dwight had told him not to move- but he doesn't know why he's still holding his breath. When he releases it and inhales again, he's blindsided by a sob that feels like a punch to the throat when he swallows it down. 

Just the one, though. 

After that, he's intent on sucking all the air down that he can. And long as he focuses on getting his breathing back under control, he can pretend that he's not just working up the courage to open his eyes. As soon as he does _that_ , he'll have to look at his hand. And as long as he doesn't look, he can trick himself into believing that it's not real, that nothing's wrong. 

"Paul?"

It doesn't occur to him to reply, distracted as he is by the mere _presence_ of her voice at all. It's a little muffled, maybe, but it's not being drowned out by that godawful hum. 

They hadn't turned on the dampeners. 

"Paul!"

_Focus_. 

"Hey," he calls back, shrugging his shoulder against his face to get at some of the dampness that's leaked down to his ear. Getting his good arm underneath him, he pushes himself up. Searches out her reflection before he has the opportunity to look down at himself. 

"You okay?

"Not great." He grimaces; there's a scratching noise under his knee when he starts getting up, but when he looks down all he can see is that there's blood on the floor and on his clothes. It's not a lot, but it's his and it had all been safely inside him a few minutes ago, and sitting right next to it is a shiny, finger sized-

-swallowing, he forces himself to actually look at his hand for the first time since the wrench had come down. The pinky's still there, which would be more of a relief if seeing it didn't bring on a fresh new wave of throbbing pain. But it looks wrong. Bloody and swollen and-

"It's still attached," he says, startled by his own pathetic relief. But that doesn't explain the-

"What? I can't see from here," Denise reminds him. 

"Yeah, hang on." Now that his brain's locked onto the fact that it's not his finger lying on the floor, he picks the object up; it's a small bandage roll, size B, still in its wrapper. Even more puzzling is the small blister pack that shakes itself loose from his pant leg as he stands.

"You gotta speak up."

Instead, he steps up to the window and holds up his hand. 

"Is that blood?" Denise is standing as close to the front of her cell as she can, frowning. "Talk to me, Paul, let me help."

"Yeah." Wincing, he forces his attention back to where she wants it, and imagines that he knows how to describe what he's looking at. The knuckle's split open, swollen and bloody; the tear in the skin goes all the way up to the base of his fingernail, which is looking discolored already. His whole finger feels stiff. "Okay," he says, feeling fairly certain of his diagnosis, "my finger's fucked up."

"Where'd he hit you?" 

"Pinky, top knuckle. Fingernail's got blood underneath it. Skin's split at the joint and-" There's something yellow and shiny, pressing up into the cut. He breathes the nausea down; now that he's seeing it, he can't look away. "I think I can see bone."

"You sure?"

"I don't know, maybe? It's all swelling up. Don't want to bend it." There's a thin watery trail of blood making it's way down the back of his hand; it itches, he thinks, and getting it washed away is a definite priority. 

"Then don't. Get it under the sink, cold as it'll let you, and hold it under there for a few minutes. It'll help keep the swelling down. Might help with the pain, too."

He nods, tries showing her the supplies, not that she can make them out. "Uh. I've got a bandage, and a single dose of, uh, Anaprox?" And he doesn't know why. He knows what they're _for_ , he just doesn't know why he _has_ them. 

"Weird. Well, get your hand under the water first, then take it. It won't do much, but it won't make anything worse."

Palming the bandage and the pill- though maybe it's already too late to bother, since the cameras are probably still on- he heads to the sink at the back of his cell and does as he's told. The cold tap water feels good- the shock of it's wearing off, but the pain is still there and the whole side of his hand is feeling hot and tight. 

It would've had to be Dwight who'd left them, he figures. Daryl'd backed away from him the moment the wrench had come down, and Negan had been in the doorway. Dwight had been the one shoving at him to stay down; he would've had the opportunity. 

Denise is calling out to him again. "How's the bleeding?"

"It's still, ah. Oozing."

"Yeah, it'll do that. Okay. I could maybe be more help if I was over there, but you probably already know what I'm about to tell you. Wrap it up- not as tightly as you might want to, but keep it snug. You can wrap it along with your ring finger for a little more support. Tie it off as best you can, or just tuck it under."

Following her instructions, winding the bandage around his injured finger a few times, and then the one next to it, and then finally around the palm of his hand. He has to use his teeth to tear the plastic open, but he manages after a few minutes and swallows it down dry. Supplies thus spent, he gingerly tucks his bandaged hand in between the buttons of his shirt in hopes of keeping it out of the way. 

"Okay," she says, once he's done. "Drink some water, then and try to rest." 

He decides that maybe he'll do that last part first, and sits down on his bunk. If she's sighing irritably, it's too quiet to make out through the wall. "Are you feeling shaky at all?"

"Not until you mentioned it." Just in his arm. And his legs.

"All right, well. Give it a while, then get it under the water again. You've done what you can for now."

For a few minutes, he's just quiet, the exhaustion finally registering. But he keeps his eyes open and tracks her progress as she paces the length of her cell, clearly agitated.

"You should sit," he tells her, loud enough that his throat itches; he thinks he can feel the pill lodged there. "You're making me nervous."

"Sorry, I'm just _pissed_ , you know?" She shakes her head; he thinks she's rolling her eyes. "Fucking _Daryl_."

He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and wonders how long they have before someone realizes they'd forgotten about the dampeners. "You know him?"

"Just well enough that I wouldn't have expected him to do _that_. What about you?"

"Just enough to stop Negan killing him a few days back." 

"I hate to break it to you, Paul, but if that was your plan, I'm thinking it might've backfired."

He laughs through his nose, rocks his head back against the wall of his cell. "That does tend to happen."

\--- 

_Tuesday, 05/13/2194, 12 :40_

He'd showered, under guard, and changed into the clothes they'd given him, not bothering to ask what they'd done with the clothes he'd been wearing this morning. Like everything else, he'll wear and keep his own clothes once he's earned the right to them. 

It's not until now, scanning the faces and builds of the other chasers as they follow the target out into the bright lights of the yard, that Daryl's even stopped to think about it. 

The first in the yard's small, but wiry, and carries himself like he might be or might've been AdSec. The other two chasers are larger. One's built like a linebacker, and walks like he knows he's got a lock on whatever bullshit's about to go down. 

He's probably right. Daryl's tired, and he's pissed off. His stomach's all fucked up from throwing up, then having to eat enough of his lunch to get his guard- Joey, who _Enid_ could probably take out in a heartbeat- to shut the hell up. 

The other chaser- a dark-skinned man with a shaved head and a NATOPS tattoo on his neck- looks pissed off enough that he's not intending on going down easy. He's also close enough to Daryl's size that they've got him wearing his coveralls. When he catches Daryl sizing him up, he cuts a glance over to the linebacker, then back to him. 

Not sure that he's reading it right, Daryl nods, just slightly. NATOPS dips his head just as Negan starts shouting his spiel to the bleachers. 

It'll be a short lived alliance. 

\---

The first in the yard is fast, but he gets himself hemmed in too quick, and Linebacker takes him out; before Daryl and NATOPS even get a punch in. 

As soon as the first's down, there's a moment where they're all sussing each other out, but he's seen this shit before. He waits until just after NATOPS makes a move forward to do the same; predictably, Linebacker's already focusing on the attack. After that, Daryl doesn't hesitate; there ain't no sense in tiring out the easier of the two _too_ much while the harder one's still standing. 

He lunges in. Manages to land a punch to Linebacker's side, but gets thrown off balance when he deflects. He stops himself from falling down, but there's too many arms, too fuckin' close and fast for him to strategize. NATOPS is grappling with Linebacker head on, so Daryl jumps out to the side, planting his heel as hard as he can against the back of Linebacker's knee. 

He goes down hard, breaking his fall on his gravel-ground hands when his foot gets stuck under Linebacker's weight. Attempting to dislodge his foot, all he does is lose his boot; he rolls to the side the minute he gets clear to find NATOPS already kickin' at Linebacker's side.

He has to hop over like some sort of idiot- the fuckers in the stands are losin' their minds- to join in; he points his remaining boot to Linebacker's head and kicks. Twice. 

Linebacker's bringing his hands up, he's shaking his head and curlin' in on himself. There's a whistle comin' from the stands; Negan's making the call. 

Before the sound even dissipates, NATOPS is lunging forward grabbing Daryl's shoulders; it's luck more'n anything that he avoids the headbutt. He still takes most of it in the chin and there's fingers movin' up to his throat-

-Daryl forces his arms up between NATOPS', then out to the side and down, gripping tight and kneeing him in the balls; he winds up with the guy lurching forward and landing a sharp jab to his stomach. He brings his elbow down between his shoulder and neck, hammering down as hard and sharp as he can make it, and gets clear. 

NATOPS isn't as quick to recover; he's got blood pouring out of his nose from the headbutt that hadn't landed, he's distracted by spitting out whatever's going down his throat. Daryl grabs him by the side of the neck and tries throwing him down, but NATOPS has him by the leg, drags him right down with him. 

For a minute, they're both just grappling for position; NATOPS is winning, Daryl can't get his hands far enough away from his throat for long enough. And then the fucker's in his ear, smirking, "Tap out, I'll go easy on ya."

He's leaning in close- already, his grip's tightening- but he's leaning into it, leaving Daryl's legs free. There's shouting from the stands but there ain't no whistle, and _fuck_ goin' easy. Daryl swings his legs up, shoves himself over to the side, sending NATOPS along ahead of him. Before the guy can get up, he throws himself over his back, pressing him into the ground. 

He tries to catch his arms before he can reach the boot that Daryl'd lost, not that it'll do him any good; all it's doin' is bringing it close enough that Daryl can grab it, and he's at the wrong angle to keep hold of it when Daryl pulls. 

"Ain't no fuckin' _easy_ ," he grinds out, wrestling the boot free and bringing it down, as hard as he can, on the side of the guy's bald head. 

Beneath him, NATOPS goes still. 

He's still alive; Daryl can see the wings he'd painted shifting as he breathes, and after a moment, his head turns to the side. He's got his eyes screwed up, and his face is bloody, and if he moves an inch more, Daryl's ready to bring the boot down again.

"Fuckin' get the fuck off me," NATOPS mumbles, and that's when Daryl hears it. Negan's whistling. The crowd. It's noise that's been there for a while now, and off in his peripheral, there's people coming towards him, crossing the yard. 

He gets up off of him and staggers to his feet, dropping the boot at his side before Simon and Negan get here and decide he ain't done with it yet. 

"Sorry, man," he tells NATOPS, though it ain't like he owes this particular asshole anything, and anyway. It was always going to come down to one of them limping out of here; that's the whole fuckin' _point_. 

At least _he'd_ had the chance to fight back. 

\---

_Tuesday, 05/13/2194. Late._

He's not totally alone. Denise is in the next cell over, asleep. Just because she'd run out of platitudes a few hours ago, it doesn't mean he couldn't stand to hear keep hearing them. Waking her up, though, probably wouldn't earn him any more. 

Still. Paul wants his own bed, his own room. At least then, even when he'd been lonely, it had been on his own terms. What he _needs_ , though, is to get out of here. The thought's not incessant, not constant. It just reoccurs to him every few minutes, sharp and quick, like it's predicating some idea or solution that never comes. 

As if he's got options he just hasn't bothered to consider, yet. 

His head's sore, his hand's throbbing, and his back's gone tight from his last round of not giving a damn about the electrified glass. He's not sure he's learned his lesson yet, but he's too exhausted, too tired for rage. Too achingly awake to stop thinking about it- what's going to happen the next time the door in that glass actually _opens_. 

Or why nobody's come down to fucking _help_ him. 

Or what the fuck he'd done to _deserve_ this. 

The dampeners might be off, but it's nothing but silence down here. He hasn't seen Heath in days- long enough, at any rate, that he's not sure, why he's still trying so hard not to blame him.

But at least he'd tried, once. 

Deanna'd told him that she'd needed him out of harm's way until everything had calmed down, and it obviously fucking _hasn't_. She hasn't come back. Maybe Negan's already overrun the council. At least then there'd be an excuse. Maybe they're all dead; part of him's hoping for it. 

Maybe they'd simply realized that leaving him down here for his own good was just more convenient for them. 

He doesn't even know how many days it's been. Hours aren't as useful at gauging the time as the repeated and steady bottoming out of what little optimism he'd thought he'd still had when he'd gotten here. 

He's starting to think, though, that the _worse_ is finally starting leveling out, that he's finally dug down to the bedrock. Having your finger smashed by a wrench will do that to you; having your finger smashed by a man whose life you'd saved will do it even harder. 

But it's got nothing on the shattered-bone-deep surety that despite how smart you'd thought you were, you've failed to find a way to stop the worse that's coming tomorrow.


	23. Chapter 23

_Wednesday, 05/14/2194, 07:08_

"You better keep your shit together today," Dwight says, as they walk down to the chow line. It's dark enough now that the lights have finally been turned on all across the colony. He's careful not to look too hard at Alexandria, though. "Too much crap going on to have to keep sorting out babysitters." 

Daryl snorts, either in irritation, agreement, or confusion. He's not rightly sure. Dwight looks beat to hell- he always does, his face bein' scarred up the way it is- but he sounds tired more, or like he's bitching just for the sake of bitching. He ain't looking like he's planning on havin' some bullshit heart to heart about it though, so Daryl just grabs a tray, gets into line behind him. 

He hadn't felt much like eating yesterday, and hadn't felt much like sleeping last night, so he's finished with his food and heading up for a second cup of coffee before Dwight's halfway done with his first. And that's when he realizes it. 

Dwight hadn't said shit about him getting up without asking permission. Hadn't gone with him, hadn't even turned around to keep watch as he wandered off. It ain't like he could just bolt out of there- ain't nowhere to go on this rock anyway- but it's new. Different. 

Could be, it's just a momentary slip-up on Dwight's part. Could be he just doesn't give a damn what Daryl does, since the whole babysitting gig's a few steps down from what Negan usually has him doing. Either way, it would be stupid to test it. He goes back to his seat, drinks his coffee while Dwight finishes, and follows him to the briefing hall. 

Dwight, bein' who he is, heads straight up to the front of the room, and since nobody's told him not to, Daryl follows him up there. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Sasha. No sign of NATOPS, or the Linebacker, or yesterday's First in the Yard. 

There ain't no new recruits, but Negan prattles on for a while anyway, leading the congregation through a round of toe-the-fucking-line Hail Mary recitations before doling out the daily assignments. Jody's coordinating the patrols out to the Techniki and Ag enclaves, which is troubling enough, and Richard and Kato will be handling the commons and the strip. Simon's got a crew heading over to Dockside, though, and that's _new_. Far as he's been able to tell, aside from the AdSec who he's seen fit to leave in place there, and aside from the brig, Negan's been mostly keeping clear of everything north of the Admin enclave's wall.

Something's going on, or it's about to. 

"Dwight, Daryl, and myself will be tying up some loose ends from yesterday," Negan finishes, "If you need something, well, radio Jody or just fucking wait. You all know what to do."

And even though there hasn't been any air in his lungs since Negan'd mentioned the enclaves, Daryl chants "toe the fucking line," right along with everyone. 

\--- 

This time, once everyone else has filtered out of the briefing hall and Negan's handing him the wrench, he's ready for it. 

If he hadn't fucked up yesterday- if Rovia just would've gone along with Negan's crap- he might be on his way to getting assigned to one of the patrols instead of heading over to the brig to break Rovia's hand. 

_More._

He'd been up half the damn night, staring out the window and very nearly making out stars in between the swirling gusts of blown dust on the other side of the membrane, and he'd tried thinking about how this was going to play out. 

He'd figured, too easily for his own liking, that _not_ going through with whatever Negan asked of him wasn't an option. He's already hurt people on account of him, and he was getting _closer_ to having it all be worthwhile, but he wasn't there yet. There'd still been guards switching off their rotations outside his door, he still didn't know anything, he still wasn't in any sort of position to do anything. Yet. 

Maybe, he'd told himself, Rovia will have dug his head out of his pasty Admin ass long enough to realize that _this_ is how the world works, now. Maybe they'd get there to find him ready to comply. Or maybe Negan will just come up with some other insanity to deal with him. Nothin' nice and cosy, that's for damned sure, but maybe-

-maybe Daryl won't fucking have to be the one to _do_ it. 

He hadn't wanted to bring the wrench down the first time. He doesn't want to do it this now. 

Not that it fuckin' changes anything. 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 05/14/2194, 07:59_

"Negan?" Dwight's had his hand to his ear for the past few minutes, looking increasingly puzzled as he talks to whoever's on the other end of the comms link. "Simon's got something."

The put-upon sigh reminds Daryl of Carl, of all the fucking things. "Did he not just _hear_ me?"

"They're already up at Dockside" Dwight explains. "Says he found them getting ready to test the RV, and the Council's all there."

Daryl stops when Negan does, and pretends to be interested in the grid of lights shining down from the membrane rig as Negan goes on comms. 

" _How_ am I just hearing this now?" There's a pause as he listens. "All right. Fine. Between you and me, we're going to need to get some smarter fucking people over there. Ain't exactly rocket science to keep an eye on some fucking rocket scientists.... No, she did what she's supposed to do. Don't spook them, though. Don't want to spoil the surprise.... Yeah. No, do _not_ get in their way. I'll be right over."

Tapping his comms link, he leaves it in place and regards the two of them. 

"All right. Slight change of plans. _You_ two are going to talk that celldwelling squint into playing ball. You may want to mention to him that, as I am going to be observing the unannounced testing of this planet's last lifeline, the point at which his usefulness becomes moot is fast fucking approaching."

"If he's not interested?"

"Pat him on the head and send him to bed with no dinner," Negan scoffs, pulling a red bandana out of his pocket and handing it to Dwight. "We're out of time, so he's out of plays." He turns on his heel, breaking off to the right, heading for the plaza. "Hit me on comms as soon as it's handled."

Dwight watches him leave, for a moment, then catches Daryl watching _him_. 

"Get a fucking _move_ on," he sneers, shoving him forward. "Let's get this the fuck _over_ with." 

\--- 

_Wednesday, 05/14/2194, 08:12_

"You fucking _asshole_!" Paul wakes up to Denise's shouting. "Daryl, what the fuck are you _doing?_ "

"Shut up, or we'll shut you up." 

Paul sits up, backing himself against the wall, blinking sleep and then tears out of his eyes as he strikes his hand on the bed frame. On the other side of the glass, Dwight's glaring into Denise's cell; Daryl's glaring down at the floor. 

He's got the wrench in his hand. 

More shouting, this time from the stairwell. "What the hell?"

Heath's voice. Heath's _here_ , maybe-

-Daryl's head swings up when Paul shoots to his feet; his expression is nearly enough to send him backing against the far wall. Turns out, though, that what actually _does_ it is the sight of Dwight swiveling his head to look up the stairs and digging some red cloth out of his pocket. 

"Heath, we've _got_ this. Get back up to your post, and turn the dampeners on."

Heath's here, and he knows what's happening, and the hum's kicking in again. 

\--- 

Dwight's stepping around the corner, entering Denise's cell, but the moment Paul moves, Daryl does too; he's watching him like a hawk. 

It shouldn't be enough to keep Paul rooted to the spot, but it is. 

He wants to yell, wants to _scream_ as he watches Denise turns around and sink to her knees, unresisting as Dwight crouches behind her, blocking her from sight. When he stands and backs out of the cell, the red fabric tied over her eyes stands out gorily in the reflection, so much so that Paul nearly misses the way her hands and feet are tied. 

Another moment, and Dwight's waving Daryl- whose eyes are wider, more obviously uneasy than they'd been a moment ago- into Paul's cell. 

"Where's Negan?"

It's fucked up that _that's_ the first thing to pop into Paul's head. 

"Busy," Dwight says, glancing out into the hallway. "He'll get here when he can. You give his offer any thought?"

"What's going on with Denise?"

"Don't worry about her."

The thing is, though, as long as he's worrying about _her_ , he doesn't have to worry about himself. He crosses his arms. They can probably see right through the false bravado, but it's all he's got. "I'm not talking until you tell me."

Dwight smirks at the floor, then looks up to study him. "We're low on doctors. Didn't want to break her brain, so we're sparing her the sight of this. So I'm asking again. You want to come work for Negan?" 

He's thought a _lot_ about it, over the past day or so Enough to figure out, finally, that Negan and the Council, they're two sides of the same coin: you might be useful, but you're also disposable and breakable, and it's up to them to decide which wins out. And right now, Daryl's black eye, which he's using to glare dubiously at Dwight, is telling him everything he hadn't wanted to know about life on Negan's team. 

This is going to hurt like hell. 

Maybe it'll be over with quickly. 

"No."

" _Damn_ it, don't you know what the fuck this _is?_ " Daryl's lurching forward angrily, stumbling when Dwight grabs his shoulder and shoves him back against the wall. 

"Daryl, give me the wrench."

Daryl shoves his hand away, stepping back and holding it behind him. "Fuck you, you want to-"

"Seriously." Dwight's voice goes quiet, but the edges are sharper. "If you don't hand it over now, it's gonna come down on you and yours later, you know this. Do _not_ make me prove it."

Dwight's crowding Daryl enough now that even if he swings, there won't be any real power in it. For a moment, they're just locked, glaring at each other. 

Paul tells himself he shouldn't be disappointed when Daryl hands it over. 

Watching it change hands, he is anyway. 

Dwight, on the other hand, seems relieved, enough so that once he's stepped clear of Daryl, he lets out a breath and grins. With a face like his, and a wrench like _that_ dangling from his hand, the sight is terrifying. 

"None of us want to be here," Dwight says. "Nobody wants to kill anyone, nobody wants to die. And none of us want to work for Negan. So what do you both say to getting the hell out of here?"


	24. Chapter 24

_Wednesday, 05/14/2194, 08:08_

"Bullshit." Daryl glares at Dwight, who shakes his head back at him. 

"Look, we don't have much time. This goes one of two ways. We break Rovia out of here and stash him away, or you kill him and then I kill you. Loose lips sink ships, and all that. You follow?"

Daryl glances out towards the corridor, not sure exactly what it is that he's looking for. Some sign that this is just another test, like everything else. 'Cause it don't make no sense. Dwight's been running with Negan for years, now, and whatever he's got anything to gain by letting Rovia go, it's apparently not so much that he ain't willing kill them both of them to cover his own ass. 

Rovia's still standing up against the wall, cradling the hand Daryl'd fucked up against his chest. Everything about his posture still looks freaked out, but his eyes are sharp, even if he's barely talking above a whisper. "You're turning on Negan?"

"Already have. And I'm not working alone. You'll meet them, soon as we're clear of here."

"Ain't no _clear_ ," Daryl scoffs. "Even if you weren't full of shit, there ain't no place to hide."

"Negan's only going to bother looking if he has reason to." 

For a minute, Daryl just tries to wrap his head around it. Dwight's shifting from foot to foot, frustrated and getting ready to press again, when Rovia speaks. 

"Um. For what it's worth, I'm on board with whatever plan doesn't end up with me dead." His mouth twitches, like he's trying to make a joke of it but knows he ain't pulling it off, and he recoils, eyes dropping to the floor when he catches Daryl looking. 

"All right, then," Dwight turns to Daryl. "What about you?"

"Yeah, sure." He says, feeling like shit and not knowing why. "You're the boss. How're we gonna do this?" 

Looking at the knife Dwight's pulling out of his belt, he's thinking that really, it might've been better if he hadn't asked. 

\--- 

If this is a rescue. _If_ this is a rescue. If _this_ is a rescue, then there's a very good chance Paul's not going to survive it. 

Watching Daryl dig the blade into his own bicep is more terrifying than he'd thought it would be, but he can't stop watching. He only hesitates once, clenching his jaw, taking a breath, and dragging it down the side of his arm with a snarl, his eyes angry, unseeing. 

At least Paul hopes so; they're staring right at him. It feels like he's being accused of something, and he doesn't know what, but he's starting to wonder if maybe he deserves it. 

It all only lasts for a couple of seconds. 

Dwight's attention hasn't left the blade since he'd handed it over, and the moment the blood starts welling up on Daryl's arm, he's reaching over to take the knife back. This causes Daryl to blink; for a minute he's just staring back at Dwight like he's not sure he should've let it go. 

But then his face twitches, like the pain's finally registered, and he's swiping his hand up through the trickling blood to press against the wound.

"All right," Dwight says, exhaling heavily as he steps back. "That's good. Now grab Paul by the neck like you're strangling him."

Dwight had apparently thought this through, quite a bit. Still, it's one thing to listen to the plan and another thing entirely not to try running the moment Daryl's hands close around his neck. 

"Thought we were gonna use the wrench." Daryl huffs, smearing the blood around, then swiping more from his arm to complete his gory paint job. And even though he's not actively trying to strangle Paul, his throat doesn't know that. 

"Here's the story. We talked. Rovia grabs my knife, attacks you. You bat the knife away and strangle him. No need to bash his skull in."

"So the cut's just for show?"

"And to make sure there's enough blood on his neck that the lack of bruises won't turn up on the screen."

Paul keeps his eyes down, shuddering as another smear of blood's drawn against the front of his throat. And finally, Daryl's hands are off of him, leaving him with a sticky neck and the ability to breathe again. 

It's only hitting him now that he could've taken a breath at any time. The grip hadn't been nearly tight enough. It just hadn't occurred to him to try. 

Of course, now that he's out of breath, Dwight's telling him that he's going to have to hold it again. 

\--- 

"You good?" Dwight asks, frowning, and earns a quiet hum in response. "Okay, well. The easy part's done with. Just play along and _don't move_ once the camera's here." Turning away, he taps his comms unit. "AdSec to brig level one. Need a bodycam down here for proof of death." Almost immediately, there's movement upstairs, and Dwight's switching channels. "Negan, this is Dwight. We ran into complications. Yeah. No, he grabbed my knife, got at Daryl some, but Daryl took care of it. Do you want a live feed or... okay."

The dreadlocked AdSec guard from the front desk comes down the stairs, fidgeting with the cam harness on the shoulder of his uniform. He looks nervous as hell until he steps up to the doorway, but Daryl catches him taking a breath and steeling himself. 

"Open a feed to Negan's channel." Dwight instructs him, waving him into the room. The AdSec hesitates for a moment, but then he's stepping over the threshold and starting to film. 

Daryl waits, watching for any movement, anything at all that'll give the game away. But Rovia doesn't move, just keeps staring at the wall with a frozen glazed expression. How he's holding his breath so long, how he's not _blinking_ , Daryl can't imagine. 

Whatever Negan's seeing over the feed, apparently it's not throwing him for too much of a loop, because apart from Dwight telling the guard to lean in for a better look at Rovia's neck, the examination doesn't last too long.

"Gonna need a few stitches, maybe, but he's holding it together just fine. Aren't you, Daryl?" Daryl looks up at the sound of his name, in time to see Dwight gesturing at the guard to get him on camera. "Yes sir, I'll tell him." 

It's uncomfortable as hell, being filmed, but he's probably not supposed to be looking like he's having the best day of his life right now anyway. 

He's pretty sure he's not imagining the rise and fall of Rovia's chest, so stares down the guard, trying to hold his attention so he won't turn around. Because of this, he catches the man's flinch when they both hear Dwight say, "you want him mulched immediately, or are you going to want to get a closer look?"

Dwight's behind them, off camera, far enough that he can shake his head in warning without being seen, so Daryl takes a breath. Keeps still, and for a few minutes, just listens to Dwight answering Negan's questions. 

Finally, he's signing off, and talking to the guard. "It's Heath, right? Negan's all set, you can stop recording."

The guard flips a switch on the side of his camera, and his shoulders droop immediately as he lets out a sigh. "This is _insane_ ," he mutters sharply, glancing out towards the corridor before crouching next to Rovia. 

"Insanity begets insanity." Dwight shrugs, dragging a hand over his face. Daryl can't quite bring himself to return the smirk he shoots at him. 

"Paul, you good?" Wherever the squint had gone in his head, it's taking him a minute to shake it off. Heath nudges his shoulder with a frown, and that seems to be enough to get Rovia moving. He shoves himself up on his elbows, and practically falls against the guard, grabbing onto the side of his uniform in some miserable semblance of a hug. 

"We need a gurney or something," Dwight's grumbling, possibly to himself. "I'm not dragging his ass all the way back to SciMed." 

Heath glances up from where Rovia's trying to shake the catatonia off. "What'd Negan say about that?"

"Sooner he's closed out, the sooner his files go up to the Council for archive review, and once that happens..." 

"Spencer will be able to hand over everything he's been looking for." Heath confirms; clearly it's a possibility they'd already discussed. Shifting- Rovia's still got that freaked-out death grip on his sleeve- he looks back up and juts his chin out towards the hallway. "There's a stretcher down in the closet by the showers. Your badges should work."

"I'll grab it," Daryl offers, needing to escape, if only for a moment. 

Because now that the headfuck's over- or at least on pause, for a second- he's starting to remember that there's a whole world outside of this cell, and he needs to start getting a bead on how any of it ties together. The sooner he does that, the sooner he can report back to Rick, and if what Dwight's saying is true, the sooner _that_ happens, the better. 

As he heads towards the showers, he glances into Dr. Cloyd's cell. Her shoulders are shaking, she's probably freaking the hell out underneath Negan's red bandana. She doesn't notice him and probably can't hear him, not on his way there, or on his way back, dragging the hard plastic backboard with him. 

It ain't right, he thinks. Fucking with her like this. 

Dwight's loitering in the doorway when he returns, looking slightly uncomfortable; past him, Rovia seems more with it than he'd been a minute ago. He's scowling at the bloody sheet he's got wadded up in his hand. 

"Yeah, well. I _couldn't_ tell you, Paul," Heath's telling him. "Wasn't sure when or how it was going to go down. Things are moving fast."

"It's fine," Rovia snorts, then lets out a sigh and hangs his head. "Thanks though."

"All right, let's do this," Dwight interrupts, leading Daryl back inside. It takes them a minute to get Rovia stretched out on the backboard- the guy's shaking, like walking's too much for him- and a few more after that to get the bed sheet arranged over him and strapped down. 

It looks believable. It looks _too_ fucking believable. 

On the count of three- Daryl's got the head and Dwight the feet- they lift the backboard up, and head out towards the stairs. Behind them, Heath is heading back for Denise's cell. 

"What's that about, anyway?" Daryl asks. "With the doctor?"

"Safety. If she knows he's alive, she might give it away. It's fucked, but it's better for everyone." Dwight huffs as he lifts his end up, taking the steps one at a time. He catches Daryl's eye again, "Same token, as soon as we're outside, and until I tell you otherwise, it's back to normal, you got that?"

Daryl nods, adjusting his grip and his footing. They ain't friends, and just because Dwight's got his own fucking game goin' against Negan, it don't make him anything more than a _possibly_ useful ally. But right now, they're only three quarters of the way up the stairs, so he presses. 

"You still owe me an explanation for the rest of this, though. Best be keepin' that in mind."

From under the sheet comes a muffled, "Ditto that."

Dwight rolls his eyes. "Fifteen fucking minutes, all right? Until then, shut the fuck up, _both_ of you."

\--- 

_Wednesday, 05/14/2194, 09:10_

His arms won't relax; he can't stop trying to brace himself for the fall he knows must be coming. 

He's been strapped tightly into place, and his hand's jammed uncomfortably against his leg one of the straps, and there's nothing he can do about it but lie back and try not to breathe too obviously. 

He's not actually suffocating. It's just warm in here. 

They're going through a doorway, and a moment later, everything goes dark. But they're not setting him down, they haven't arrived at wherever they're going, yet. He's trying to pull up any recollection of the building's layout for several minutes before he finally _thinks_ he recognizes the sound of gravel crunching under boots; between the fabric bunched up around his head and the plastic underneath him, nothing sounds right. 

If they _are_ outside, it's dark enough that there's no light coming in through the sheet. It takes him a few minutes to process what that means: that he's been locked up so long he'd missed the sunset. 

The _whole thing_

They're probably heading to SciMed- Dwight had mentioned something about it earlier. Still, a smarter man would've bothered to ask. Right now, all he can do is wait. Try to stay still. Try to ignore the hurt and every brand new bad avenue his head wants to go down. But the sheet over his face doesn't give him much by way of distraction. 

He's alive. Right now, he's alive. 

He knows that should make up for the gnarled, painful mess they'd made of his hand yesterday. All the same, though, they'd come into the cell, prepared to kill him. Hell, Daryl'd needed convincing- he'd needed _threats_ \- not to go through with it. 

He's alive, because Dwight's people must think him useful. 

Heath's one of Dwight's people, and he'd known all along. He hadn't said shit, and he _could've_. And Paul had latched onto him so hard that he'd be cringing about it now; at least he's wrapped up too tight to make it obvious. 

He's got no sense of the time or how far they've gone; for all he knows they're taking him out to the airlock, and-

- _no_. 

That's stupid. He's just panicking. No sense in them taking the risk and faking his death just to kill him somewhere more complicated. At least not until he's proven, to Dwight and his people, how useful he really _isn't_.

He wonders- and he's trying not to, but it's there all the same- if they're going to make Daryl do it. 

He wonders if he'll hesitate. 

\--- 

Daryl's hands are sore from gripping the heavy hard plastic backboard all the way over here, but finally, the doors are sliding shut behind them and an attendant's wheeling a gurney towards them, apprehension clear on his face. 

"One for the morgue?" he asks, raising an eyebrow at Dwight; Daryl doesn't notice the glance being cut in his direction. 

"Yeah. Paul Rovia."

Daryl steps out of the way as the attendant takes over to steer. "Forms are just waiting for signature keys," he says. "Blunt force trauma?"

"Strangulation."

They're stepping into the elevator and going down one level. When the door opens again, the wheels seem louder than they'd been before. 

"You sticking around?"

" _He_ is," Dwight nods at Daryl. "Gotta see someone about the arm. And I've got to get back and report in." 

There's a wide metal door at the end of the hall; as they're passing through it, Daryl notices wires sticking out of the walls; it's far too obvious. 

"What happened to the cameras?" 

"Huh? Oh. They were taken out a few years ago when they built the addition at the school. Turns out footage of dead people isn't all that interesting to watch. Only ones left on this level are at the elevator. You're in the clear."

As if on cue, underneath the sheet, Rovia starts movin' around, but before he can do more than that, they're rounding the corner, heading through another door. Daryl's not sure what the room's for, though the drain in the table gives him some ideas. The furnishings and fixtures are all metal and glass; when the lights come on overhead, it tints everything blue. 

Including Sasha.


	25. Chapter 25

_Wednesday, 05/14/2194, 09:35_

There's a commotion in the room as finally, the straps are undone enough for him to paw his way up out of the bloodied sheet. Someone behind him is steadying his arm as he sits up- the room sways for a moment, but he doesn't go down.

"Easy now. Got enough to deal with down here with arms and hands and everything, don't need you getting knocked out on top of that."

The attendant's leaning into his field of vision now; mostly all he can track is the pale green and white of his uniform. He closes his eyes and nods, swinging his legs down off the gurney and smacking his ankle against the leg of a metal examination table. 

"I'll go let 'em know he's here," the attendant says; Paul follows his gaze past Dwight to a dark-skinned woman, wearing most of an AdSec uniform standing by the door. Another Savior, then. Only apparently not. "We've got 103 prepped, just bring him up when you're ready."

"Thanks, Lee," she replies. 

"Yeah."

As if it had just been waiting for Lee to leave, Paul's hand starts throbbing again. Right now, though, he's more interested in some kind of explanation. And with the lull in the conversation, it's looking like he's going to be the one to get the ball rolling. 

"So," he casts out for something to say. "You're not a doctor..."

Off to the side, Daryl snorts. The irritation on his face looks deeply set in. Maybe it's anger. He doesn't know him well enough to tell yet.

"Ah, no. I'm Sasha." The smile drops off her face as she glances over at Daryl- and _yeah_ , Paul thinks. That looks an awful lot like anger. "And I'll explain everything in a _minute_ , if you just get over to the sink and take care of that damned arm. You're bleeding all over the damned place and we're on a timeline, here."

"I should be able to stretch it," Dwight offers, poking at the tablet the attendant had handed over on his way out the door. "I'll get back, explain that Daryl's getting his arm seen to, start laying the groundwork. How'd the testing go?"

"Some sort of pressurization failure, I dunno." Breaking off, she watches Daryl head over to the sink. "Bandages and epiglue are up in the cabinet to your left," she tells him, then turns back to Dwight. "Soon as Negan and Simon started herding the Council back to their chambers, I booked it over here."

"Anyone see you?"

She smirks. "Anyone asks, I'm going with lady troubles."

Dwight grins back at her- completely oblivious to the murderous glare Daryl's shooting him- and starts for the door. "All right. You got this?"

"Yeah, we're good. Thanks."

The footsteps fade down the hall, and after a faint grin in his direction, Sasha heads over to the sink where Daryl's wrapping the bandage over his glued-together arm. 

"Is it gonna hold?"

Daryl turns, leaning against the counter and tugging his sleeve back down before crossing his arms. "It's fine," he growls. "So how's about you tell us what the fuck's going on?"

Sasha raises her arms and backs off, smirking, hopping up to dangle one leg over the edge of the examination table so she can keep them both in her line of sight. 

Clearly trying to figure out where she needs to start, she sighs. "Well. You both probably noticed that things have gotten a little fucked up, lately. Negan's taking over, and the Council's not doing shit to stop him- most likely because if everyone's too worried about _him_ , they're not going to be looking at _them_ quite so hard."

"What're they up to?" It's probably too big a question, judging by her expression, so Paul tries to pare it down. "I mean, it sounds like the Council's planning on turning tail, grabbing the Sagan and running back to Earth." 

Sasha tears her eyes from where Daryl's started pacing. "I've been working Dockside for a while now; vultures from all sides- Negan included- are circling your old team. If you're wondering."

He hadn't been, and probably should've been. 

Shit, he needs to think. 

"So Negan wants it for himself, then, and they've got the same end game."

"That, actually, is a little unclear." Sasha shrugs. "As far as anyone can tell, it's more that he wants _control_ of the ship than to actually _use_ it."

"What's the point of that?" 

"It's the only way out of the fucked up situation that this rock's become." At his lack of response, her shoulders slump. "I mean, you have the keys, then everyone's hope is hanging on you, right? That right there is power. Thing is, we're still trying to figure out exactly what Negan's plan actually _is_."

\--- 

Daryl nods towards the door, calm as he can manage. 

"Who's _we_? You and Dwight? I mean, you sure as hell can't be talking about Alexandria, since you fuckin' disappeared without sayin' shit to nobody." 

"Well, unfortunately, _not saying shit_ is how it's got to be for right now." Sasha slides down off the table and walks towards him, smiling like she's trying to placate him. "And Dwight's good people. You can trust him."

He doesn't want to, but he's stepping up to meet her, 'cause she needs to fucking _hear_ it. "Yeah, well, your new best friend made me go after him-" he points at Rovia, like there's anyone else he could be fucking talking about- "with the same goddamn wrench they killed _Abe_ with. You remember him?"

"I'm _sorry_ , Daryl." She steps up to meet his glare. "We're doing what we can, but we can't control everything."

"Which," Rovia adds, holding himself upright now that he thinks he's got a point to make, "given the fact that you were the one _smashing my hand_ with that wrench, you should probably understand _fairly_ well."

Fuck. 

Fuck _all_ of this. Whatever this even fucking _is_. 

"Look," Sasha says, backing off a step, probably on purpose. She looks like she wants to go on the attack and there's a part of him that's actually hoping for it. But she takes a breath. Keeps her shit together. "I know what you're doing. Knew from the minute I saw you at the briefing hall. You and I are on the same side, regardless of what you think about Dwight."

"You sure about that? 'Cause nobody at OT, nobody at Alexandria knows shit about what you've been up to." _It ain't just Negan that got me out here, and people are worried about you_. The words get hung up in his throat, though. She's uninjured, she's got her own thing going on. There apparently weren't no need to be concerned in the first place. 

"If I'd thought it through better from the outset, I would've told everyone what I was up to. But it was too risky. I'm doing what I can, here, but I need your help, all right? 'Cause as far as actually taking care of shit goes, this ain't pretty, and it ain't perfect, but unless you've got something major up your sleeve, it's kind of the only game in town."

"All right," he says, after a minute. "Let's hear it, then. From the top." 

"I'll go quick," she glances apologetically over at Rovia, who's straightening up, bracing his arm against his chest. "Originally I was planning on just Negan out. Dwight caught on, but luckily, he's on our side, and figured that if he'd managed to suss it out that quickly, Negan and Simon wouldn't be that far behind. So he had me assigned to the Docks where I'd be out of the way." She smirks, shaking her head. "I fucking _hated_ his ass for that. But then, after a few days, I started hearing some talk about shit going wrong with the resupply, and all of a sudden there were Council members crawling all over the place, breathing down people's necks. Nobody was saying they were coming around looking at the possibilities for a one-way trip, but they weren't talking about return missions, so..."

Rovia grins bitterly; under the harsh morgue lights, he looks skeletal. "So you figured they were planning on bailing."

She nods. "Got in with your guy, Connor. He showed me the plans for the ship's upgrades, told me about how you'd all worked your asses off to come up with something sustainable for the good of the colony, only to have it gutted by selfish assholes. So the plan changed into what it is now- taking the ship to Earth and bringing back the cavalry."

"One problem," Rovia points out. "There aren't any launch sites."

"Most of them are still standing, it's just that NATOPS pulled out. And for all we know, by the time we get down there, maybe the situation will have changed. If not, we're going to have to talk a whole lot of people into putting their necks out."

This is insane. "How the hell are you gonna manage that?"

"Not sure. I've been improvising on a _very long_ shot. But it beats sitting on our asses waiting for the Council to abandon us to Negan." She pulls a face, then looks at Rovia. "How do you feel about going to Earth?"

Rovia eyes go wide; he just stares back at her. 

"Look," she tells him, after a moment. "I'm not asking because I saw your plans and thought _hey, this is gonna save us all._ I don't even know if you're going to be any good at what I'm asking you to do. But you're Governor Jefferson's son-"

" _Step_ -son."

Sasha frowns, then shrugs. "Stepson, then, fine, _whatever_. But right now, all I've got is a small band of turncoats. Nobody with any political clout."

Rovia stares back at her. "You literally just dragged me out of a prison cell, where the Council put me. How much clout do you _honestly_ think I have?"

"Right now, it's more about what the people on Earth think. We've been cut off; they don't know Jefferson's dead. Either way, people might be more inclined to listen if it's the son of the Governor talking. You could lend this whole thing an air of respectability." 

Rovia's massaging his wrist, shaking his head. "You're sounding like you've put some thought into this."

She shrugs. "Not as much as I would've liked. I mean, I don't really know you, and I don't know how far I can trust you-"

"You can," Daryl says, quicker and louder than he'd meant to, but he'd seen how Rovia'd winced, just now. Could've been her words. Could've been whatever's got him looking sweaty and pale, over there. 

"Sorry." Sasha closes her eyes, shaking her head, and looks back at Rovia. "I heard how you stepped up at Alexandria, and I'm grateful for it. But this is the first time we've spoken- that's all I meant. I don't know where you _are_ with all of this."

"So, you want to what, smuggle me onto the ship and have me go down to a planet I've never even seen in hopes that I can politic a bunch of strangers into sending some backup."

Sasha stops short. "Essentially, yes. But you wouldn't be going alone, I'm building up a crew."

Daryl nods, and maybe he should've been paying attention, instead of thinking back to how Carol must've done it, when she'd stowed away, because Sasha's still talking. 

"And by _that_ token, Daryl, I'm really hoping you're willing to take the trip as well."

He blinks back at her, unsure of what she'd said. "Ain't no governor's son."

"You've spent more time on Earth than any of us and if it came down to it, if shit down there's still as bad as I'm thinking it might be, you'd be better than most at navigating it."

"Weren't _you_ were born there?"

"I left ten years before the war started." She sighs. "And besides. We're going to take out Negan. And while it's nice to think that _that_ will put an end to all of this shit, as soon as word gets out about what's going down, Dwight's going to have a target on his back. You will too. Like it or not, Negan has people backing him, and they weren't all brainwashed into it." Shooting him a wry grin, she adds, "And it would be nice to have someone that I've trusted for more than a few weeks on side. Just sayin'."

"Can I think about it?"

She nods "I'm going to need to know soon, though." Turning to Rovia, she raises her eyebrows. "What about you?"

He looks surprised that she's asking, and Daryl barely knows him, but he can tell that he's trying to be polite. Either that, or he's just trying to stay awake; maybe he's just going with whatever he thinks will get him seen by the doctor sooner. "Oh, um. I could do with a little more detail, maybe. But yeah. I think we're on the same side."

\--- 

Something's wrong- _more_ wrong- with his hand; he can't stop sweating, and he's having a hard time focusing on anything that isn't the fire burning in his hand and up to his elbow. It's been going on for a while, now, long enough that he's starting to think that maybe asking if he'd really heard what he thinks he remembers hearing. It feels like he'd imagined it, now, but he doesn't have anything else from the last twenty minutes to replace it with. 

Besides. Sasha's walking up ahead of them, talking to someone on comms about running interference and clearing Daryl's path back to the yard. Daryl, for his part, doesn't look much like he feels like talking, either. He's just got his eyes trained on the floor.

Paul's feet are heavy, but it can't be that much longer, now. They're already _at_ SciMed. Soon, he can sit down again. Fade out for a while and let a doctor deal with it instead. 

He might wake up missing a hand. Right now, whether it's infection or just damage, he can't bring himself to care. 

Sasha's turned around, she's telling Daryl something about the perimeter walkway that Paul doesn't bother to track. He doesn't really snap to any sort of attention at all until he notices that he's come to a complete stop in front of a door marked 103, and that Daryl's standing in front of him. Eyes still on the floor, except for the half second that they're trained on his hand. 

"M'sorry about that, by the way."

"It's fine," Rovia says, his mouth a straight line, mostly because he doesn't know what'll happen when he stops clenching his jaw. 

"Still. Hope they can fix it." Daryl doesn't look up, just knocks on the door before turning to follow Sasha around the corner.

By the time the door opens and the attendant says his name, he feels like he's been staring after him for an hour.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning: this chapter is mostly just people sitting in a room talking for the sake of expedience. The next installment after this will be wrapping up book one, and I didn't want to spend another half dozen chapters maneuvering everyone into place.)

_Thursday, 05/15/2194, 09:02_

It's easier and it ain't, now. 

He can come and go as he pleases, so long as he follows his orders and doesn't go too far afield. He hasn't finished testing those waters yet, and regardless of what he does or doesn't believe as far as Dwight and Sasha are concerned, he's got to be more careful, now. 

It'd be far too easy to fuck up their plans, and doing so before he's got anything worthwhile to report back to Rick would get them nowhere. 

So he settles into his routine, and he waits. Briefings and patrols and training drills. Leading fuckups out into the yard for the daily stompdown. Target practice with a blaster that has almost no recoil or haptic response at all. 

Following Dwight back to the brig to make sure that Denise's release goes smoothly- Negan's smart enough not to push SciMed _too_ far, after all- and being so relieved that it's happening at all that he can't even resent how hard she's ignoring him as Dwight explains the terms of her release. 

Trying not duck the wary stares and congratulations on his promotion. Not looking too obviously for signs of news from Dwight, just in case anyone's watching. Pretending not to notice how Carl ducks his gaze and hurries the younger kids into the school, or the way Rick's eyes follow him when they nearly cross paths down on the strip. 

It's mostly about balance. Keeping his mouth shut's one thing; remembering to laugh along with the other saviors ain't so easy. He learns quickly to volunteer for the low-hanging work in hopes that he'll be overlooked in favor of some other asshole when it comes time for the heavier shit. 

It doesn't always go that way, though. Right now, his face is as blank as he can make it, because Negan's assigning him to Simon's patrol, and ordering the all to Alexandria.

But maybe it works just enough, because the moment the briefing's done, Simon's shoving a tablet in his face, telling him to stick a review flag on job T-229, while Simon heads over to the armory for full charge packs. 

It happens so casually, he doesn't even realize what it is- what it could _be_ \- until he's finished flagging the completed job as _pending_. 

T-220 is a repair on the electrical line at Alexandria. They've got their probable cause, then. Admin will be content, regardless of whatever's coming next. 

He does a quick survey- Simon still hasn't even made it to the armory- and gets to work, tweaking the job info to make it clear- to Rick, at least- that they're coming, and they're armed. 

It's long overdue, and it's last minute- a twenty minute warning at best- and it ain't everything he needs to tell him, not by far. But it's all he's got time for before Simon's back, trading him a blaster for the tablet, and telling him to get his ass in gear, to go catch up with Milo and the others.

Simon doesn't notice him holding his breath. 

Maybe it's worked. 

\--- 

Maybe it hasn't. 

Maybe Rick hasn't checked his notifications. Maybe he just doesn't give a damn. It's been days, and Alexandria's even more in the dark than he's been, and he hasn't told them shit. Maybe they're not even waiting for him, to, any more.

Right now, Rick's coming out onto the front steps, watching him march up with Simon, Milo and the others, and the apprehension on his face looks real.

"We need you to show us the work you did for ticket T-229," Simon announces. "In the interest of making it easy going- I know those hallways get tight pretty quickly- it'll just be you, me and Daryl." Simon's smirking up at the front door, where Tara's concerned face is peeking out. "I'm going to need everyone else up in there to come and wait outside. Milo, you make sure everyone keeps it copacetic."

Rick turns to nod at Tara, who disappears for a moment before coming outside, Glenn and Michonne following behind her. 

Tara's eyes are on the ground, as she comes down the steps and moves over a hesitant distance from where the patrol's waiting. Michonne's aren't, but her jaw's set and he's not looking at Daryl. Glenn, though, he doesn't stop glaring.

He tells himself that he'd been expecting the anger. That it's familiar, what with the company he's keeping. But he ain't so sure that a fair amount of it ain't directed at him. 

_Shit_. They hadn't gotten the message. He needs to explain it- explain _everything_ \- or, fuck it, get a signal across, at least, but Simon's leaning into Tara's face, asking her if she's sure that they're not going to be walking into any unpleasantness, and there are far too many guns out here to even consider trying. 

So he just follows Simon and Rick, trying not to look back at his people or their Savior guards, without making it obvious he's doing so. It wouldn't do to look like this is bothering him. This is all just for show. 

It's an excuse to look around, throw some weight around, maybe test the waters for whatever Negan's got planned next. An excuse for Simon to make a show of checking the false wall panel in the living room that the Saviors have known about for a year now, and to eventually stop in the middle of the hallway outside Carl's room and ask, "Daryl, you know this place better than any of us. Are we missing anything?" 

They are. There's the crawlspace in Aaron's room, the false front on the second from the bottom step of the stairs they'd taken up here. Two panic rooms, so far. 

Rick's standing behind him. Simon's staring right at him. He's got no idea what to say. 

"Uh." He shakes his head; stops himself, makes a gesture towards the floor, indicating the false wall below them, then shrugs. 

Simon's eyebrow ticks up, irritably; he knows he's stalling. 

Daryl squares his shoulders, and hopes like hell that Rick's moved anything he'd had there, and failing that, that he'll _understand_.

"Rick's room," Daryl decides, nodding up the hallway to the door to his and Michonne's quarters. Rick's wouldn't want anyone else taking the hit. And as far as the Saviors concerned, as the leader, he's the most obvious choice. 

Which hopefully means he's prepared for it. 

"Closet, up at the left side. There's a shelf."

He can't see Rick's reaction, but Simon's grin appears, then grows wider.

"Thought you were here to check the repairs." Rick's voice is quieter than Daryl thinks it should be. 

"Which wouldn't have gotten flagged by Admin if they didn't suspect there was something more going on," Simon lies so smoothly that it's clear he doesn't give a damn if Rick believes him or not. "Let's go take a look, shall we?"

Simon ushers Rick ahead, who fires an unreadable glance at Daryl as he passes, and they go into his quarters. Rick leads the way, but Simon doesn't want him goin' that far. 

"You stand right there," Simon orders Rick, elbowing Daryl forward. "You know what this is about, you show me."

There's a second, when he's feeling along the shelf hidden above the frame of the closet door and Simon's looking at his hands, where he manages to glance at Rick just long enough to catch a humorless smirk. It's gone in an instant. 

It could mean anything.

Simon shoves him out of the way, starts feeling around up top for himself, mouth curling into a grin as he drags something solid down off the shelf. But then he's just laughing. 

He's got a mostly empty bottle of whiskey in his hands. The same kind Daryl'd spent 1500 credits on. Maybe it's the same bottle; probably, it ain't. 

Simon, at least, doesn't seem too bothered by his disappointment. 

"You know," he tells Rick. "Hiding alcohol could be construed as a sign that you've got a problem."

"Or that you have a teenaged son who doesn't listen like he used to," Rick bites back, just this side of irritated. But his eyes don't leave the floor; he's clearly expecting the worst. 

Simon steps forward, shaking his head. But he hands the bottle back to Rick. 

"All right. Apologies for the intrusion, of course. We'll get out of your hair."

Rick's eyebrows are up to his hairline; Daryl doesn't believe him, either. Not until Simon turns away, calls Daryl after him, and leads him downstairs. 

–- 

Outside, nobody's speaking. Michonne's staring at Rick like she's trying to read it off of his face; the others are just heading 'round to the workyard, probably as relieved to be leaving as _he_ is, right now. 

"You find anything?" Milo asks, as they're leaving. 

"Nothing at all," Simon says, then looks pointedly at Daryl. "And everything we'd been hoping for."

\--- 

_Thursday, 05/15/2194, 14:27_

"You said you saw her?" Alex's voice is quiet, and his hands are careful as they re-set the splint into place over the bandage. The injection's working; Paul hasn't been able to feel anything Alex's has been doing this whole time. But sense memory's a funny thing; for as clearly as he can remember what Alex's hands are capable of, his memories from last year are stronger than the numbed sensations feeding up from his hand right now. 

Alex looks worried when Paul glances up; more time has passed than he'd thought. 

Denise. Right. The entire reason Alex is actually putting in clinic hours, instead of managing from the enclave. They're not just in here holding hands. That was never their scene. 

"She's okay, last I saw. Not hurt." He considers telling him that she's been giving Negan hell, but it could be a lie, by now, anyway. "How're things going here?"

"The Saviors are sending us more business than we've ever seen. So far, they're more interested in the Techniki than anyone else, so that's something, at least. Don't know how long it's going to hold, though. They already came here, wanting us to give them priority."

"Has the Council responded yet?"

"Like you don't already know?" After a moment, the smirk drops off his face, and he sighs. "Yeah, I... Right, you've been out of the loop. They've been locked down. Nobody outside of the department heads have even talked to them... Apparently, they're working on implementing your team's plans."

Alex shrugs, forestalling Paul's idea to ask if he's heard anything more about his people. None of them, so far as he can tell, had pulled anything like he'd done, but that doesn't mean Negan wouldn't consider them suspect or guilty by association. 

"How's that been going?" he asks, not particularly wanting to look up. 

"Well, the membrane's still standing, so there's that, but...nobody's saying anything, really, so a lot of people are pretty upset, you know?" He has to move Paul's wrist to secure the bandage; Paul wonders if it hurts or if he's just expecting it to. "I mean, holding out on people like that. It's just not cool."

Paul nods, it takes him a few seconds to notice the censure in Alex's eyes; he looks like he's considering jabbing the needle somewhere that isn't numbed through a local anesthetic.

"It was all need to know," he manages, eventually. "Didn't want to start people panicking."

"Well, I'd say you all did a _fantastic_ job there." The glare relents, and Alex sets Paul's hand down gently on the table. 

It feels cold, where it's not entirely numb, and doesn't particularly look like it belongs to him. 

"So," Paul says, feeling awkward and exposed and not knowing why, "what's the prognosis?"

"Infection's looking better, and everything else is healing up as well as it could be." Alex is, predictably, frowning. The bone stabilizers are in the emergency rooms upstairs; even with the privacy screens, there are too many people coming and going for Paul to go anywhere near them. "The splint should keep you from tearing your stitches, long as you keep it on, but I would predict that you're going to take a hit in the dexterity department either way. I'd say, old-schooling it, you're looking at three weeks, at least, before you even find out." 

Alex turns away to pull off his gloves and deposit them in the autoclave bin; he's just long enough about it that it's obvious he's trying to give him some privacy. "But, give it another day or two, you'll be healed off on whatever grand adventure that your friend Sasha's not telling anyone about."

Paul freezes, replaying their conversation, trying to sort out what he might've let slip. He'd barely been conscious, yesterday, when he'd overseen the surgery; it hadn't occurred to him that Alex might not actually be _involved_.

"Hey," Alex says, sounding a lot more like he used to, back in Paul's quarters. There's a bedside manner joke in there somewhere, but Paul's not in the mood to test it out on anyone, especially not _him_. "Don't worry about it, all right? Way I see it, if it wasn't for that stunt you pulled, getting yourself locked up, we'd all still be in the dark out here, heading for the same bad scene, and all we'd have to show for it is one more dead Techniki."

"But Sasha-"

"She told us enough, all right? Even told me and Lee why we're being left in the dark, and we're all on board. So quit looking so worried, we've got this. Just go on up, ride out the painkillers and get some rest." He opens the door, glancing out to scan the hallway, and pulls a wry face. "Also, you might consider grabbing a shower, once shift change is done. I'll let Lee know to bring you some fresh clothes along with dinner."

\--- 

_Friday, 05/16/2194, 07:02_

Another Friday, another 700 credits on his card, which had been waiting for him in his quarters Wednesday afternoon like some sort of fucked up bonus for services rendered. 

More importantly, though, is the fact that on Fridays, everyone who cares is looking at their accounts on the briefing hall's computer banks to make sure their pay's gone through. It's not something he'd ever checked regularly once the notion that he's got _enough_ had started sinking in, but given the fact that Negan's had his card stashed somewhere for the better part of a week, it seems like a good idea. 

And it provides him a reason to queue up after lunch to go online, in case anyone's curious. It only takes him a few seconds to get to the completed jobs in the Techniki queue, and to start making a few specific typos. 

Given the way things went down when he'd tried it yesterday, all Daryl knows is that so far, either Negan hasn't noticed the errors on the ticket, or hasn't recognized them for what they were. 

Given the way things went down yesterday, all Daryl hopes is that Rick's still _looking_. 

The gauge-check on pump 18, out off the perimeter behind Ag, is out of the way, not so close to the Techniki enclave to cause suspicion if he's caught heading out there. He flags it for follow-up, adding it to the half-dozen or so others in Rick's reporting queue. 

Nobody outside of Admin ever bothers to add a specific deadline, but there are enough of them there on the list that it won't stand out, so he selects _today_ and _23:59_. A doubled capital letter at the start of the description, the way he and Rick had agreed, should alert him to the fact that he's the one coming out there. The personnel required for the original job had been three people; he changes that to one to indicate that it's just him, coming. 

He sends the update, and is about to sign off when the system alerts him to the fact that _Grimes, R., TGM_ has logged into the reporting system. Same as he does every morning; it's just luck that Daryl's looking at it at this exact moment. The status field blinks and grays out, displaying the words _UNDER REVIEW-- PENDING_.

It's the first thing that's gone right in weeks, but it's a stupid thing to be grinning at- not least because there's a slap on his shoulder, and he hadn't even noticed anyone coming up behind him.

"Good news, Killer?"

"Don't fuckin' _call_ me that," he grumbles, then rolls his eyes at Dwight because he's not trying to show how fucking relieved he is that it ain't someone _else_ catching him, here. 

Besides. _Killer_ is a step up from Dogboy, if only because it's the kind of nickname Merle might've landed on out at the bars back home. 

It ain't Merle who'd given it to him, though; it had been Negan, making a scene at yesterday's morning briefing, crowing about what Daryl'd done- what Negan had _thought_ he'd done- to the entire assembly. 

"He ain't a cruel man, not by a long shot, and he's a shit conversationalist. But killing just _suits_ some people, when the need arises. He knows what he has to do, and he damn well fucking _does_ it, and he doesn't cry like a sniveling little bitch afterwards, neither. Which, for some of you sad bastards, might be something worth working towards, if you're gonna be any goddamn use to any of us at all."

Daryl'd stood there, stone faced, listening to him and waiting for the axe to fall out of habit, but it hadn't come down. Instead, he'd just stood there while half the damn room forgot to put their eyes forward as Negan started doling out their marching orders. 

Daryl'd waited, chanted _toe the fucking line_ along with everyone, and that had been that, easy as lying.

\--- 

Dwight's smirking, glancing back to the computer banks they're leaving, and his voice is a little loud and deliberately snide. "Chill out, man. It's Friday, we've just been paid, and 700 credits might not have the buying power they did two weeks ago, but you and I are grabbing beers tonight to celebrate your promotion."

He glances around, obviously enough that Dwight and anyone watching knows he's doing it. "Not interested." They ain't friends. Or hell, maybe they are, but it don't look the same as it does over on the Techniki side. 

Maybe he's overthinking this shit. 

"You sure? Got some friends down at the vid shop you really ought to meet."

They're far enough away from anyone now that he risks it. "Got somewhere to be. Midnight."

Dwight sobers, nodding, his voice going quiet. "You get word through to your people?"

He shrugs. "Rick. Maybe."

Dwight doesn't seem surprised. "Would save some time and effort if you could bring him along."

He shakes his head, not liking the odds at getting a chance to send another message through. "Way Jody was talkin' yesterday, I'm gonna be stuck out in the commons with her all day."

"I'll take a stab at it," Dwight says, mouth twisting into a grimace. He doesn't sound hopeful. "How'd you get word over-"

He opens his mouth, stops himself, and then closes it again. Shaking his head, he tries to think. 

If Dwight's playing him- he's doesn't really think that he is, but there's still a _chance_ \- then there's no way in hell Daryl's going to make it any easier than he has to. They're drawing close enough to the chow line that he can hear silverware clinking onto trays.

Besides, he reminds himself, if Rick doesn't bite, it ain't like he doesn't already have a plan to go see him face to face at midnight. 

"Tell him Carl's got my knife, and that I told him about the cabin back home. Easy enough to confirm, not the kind of shit that would've come up under interrogation."

Dwight's looks are getting easier to interpret; this one's sardonic. So he's probably caught on to the fact that Daryl's got no plan to tell him how he got word through. But what he says instead is, "cabin, huh?"

"Yeah." They've reached the chow line; he grabs a tray and queues up. "It's a house. Made of wood and shit." 

Dwight snorts. "Fuck you, Abe Lincoln."

\---

_Friday, 05/16/2194, 21:44_

Clarice is lounging on one of the benches near the vid shop's door, sliding the strap of the too-small dress her light-haired friend is wearing down over her shoulder under the cold red light. The moment he comes close enough for her to make him out clearly, Clarice snorts, and the strap's slid back up into place. 

"Thought you were someone else," Clarice raises an eyebrow at him, earning a confused look in return. 

"I had a-"

"An _appointment_ , dear. I know, you're hardly the only one." She nods her head languidly down the narrow, dark corridor, and shoots him a sly closed-mouth smile that's probably too habitual to be an act any more. "You're in the red room, last one on the right. Time is money, honey, and you're late."

Daryl makes his way down the hall, skin prickling at the sound of hushed words and muted laughter following after him. God only knows what Clarice and the other woman are talking about; the only thing he knows for sure is that he don't want no part of it.

He only manages to knock on the door once before it swings open, and Dwight's ushering him into the room. The walls are red and the light dim, even after the darkness of the hall. "What the hell, man?"

"Negan showed up right after you left," he grimaces. "Bought me a drink. Had to listen to him goin' off for the better part of twenty minutes." It had felt longer, than that, drinking his beer and trying not to look like he was trying to get away, while listening to Negan brag to his entourage about how Daryl'd strangled some Admin scum- "little prick _fought_ too, almost like a man. Look at his arm!" - to death. 

"Anyone follow you?" 

Stepping into the room, it feels like the tail end of a party that nobody wants to be at, any more. Sasha's half kneeling on a chair, conferring over a tablet with Maggie, who glances up and offers him an only slightly wary wave. Next to them, Rick and Michonne are doing their best to minimize any and all contact with the well-used couch they're sitting on, while having what looks to be a very intense conversation. 

Two men are leaning against the wall nursing their beers- the one saluting him with his cup is Heath; the other's got to be Admin, regardless of the drab clothes he's wearing. No sign of Rovia, but given the logistics it would take to get him down to the strip without anyone seein', he probably shouldn't be as surprised as he is. 

Daryl shakes his head, focuses again on Dwight. "Nah. He told me to fuck off and went into the casino." Which might make it kind of messy, getting everyone out of here without anyone noticing; asking about it is going to have to wait, though, because Rick's stepping around the low table to drag him into a hug.

"It's good to see you, man."

His arms are trapped, but he pats awkwardly at Rick's back and nods past him at Michonne, who's clearly about to start laughing. "You too. Uh, about yesterday-"

"It's fine."

"Messages get through?"

Rick steps back and nods over at Dwight, like he's confirming something else entirely. "He filled in some blanks. Just wasn't sure about any of it until you walked through the door." 

Sasha snorts, feigning hurt, and glances up from her tablet. "What, _my_ being here wasn't enough to set you at ease?"

"Nothing about this is," Michonne points out, moving her knee so Rick can sit down again. "No offense."

"Yeah, well. We're good." Rick shrugs, then smirks at Daryl. "Oh, and that knife? Carl broke it tryin' to pry open a bearing casing for Eric. Says he's sorry."

God _damn_ , he misses Alexandria. Feels it like a knife going in, quick and hot, and he's still trying to swallow the feeling down when the Admin comes up and reaching his hand out to shake. 

"Connor McBride. Dockside." That explains it, at least- the way he's standing there like he's ready for shit to go down any second. His name's gotten around, same as some of the stories. 

"Daryl Dixon. Alexandria. AdSec. Or whatever."

"Good to meet you."

He nods back, then glances over at Rick, then Sasha, waiting for one of them to get started. 

"Here," Dwight says, handing him a cup of beer he'd poured from the growler someone'd brought along. "You leave here looking as tense as you did walkin' in, people're gonna wonder." 

He's not actually intending on drinking any of it, but the silence is starting to stretch out and there are too many people are looking at him. Drinking might not be the worst idea after all. 

Maggie's the first to break the silence. "So, what's next? Now that we're all here?"

"Finally got Rovia on the line," Sasha mutters, turning the tablet around so everyone can see. There's lag on the screen- there almost always is, when it's a tablet to tablet connection- but Rovia's face is there, blue grey in an otherwise dark room. "Everyone say hi."

There's a brief chorus of hellos- Daryl doesn't participate- and Heath's reaching for the tablet; Conner leans over his shoulder to speak into it. "You good, man?"

"I'm fine. Hey, McBride. Didn't know...." Daryl can barely make out Rovia's voice from this angle. 

It's just as well. Makes it easier to focus on Sasha. 

"All right, everyone. Daryl's here, we've got Paul on the line, and everyone's been caught up, so now we need to talk about what's happening next." Standing up, she paces to the middle of the room, leaning her shin against the table. "We managed to buy some time again today, but we're not going to be able to hide the fact that the ship's ready to go for much longer."

Connor nods, straightening up, all ears. "And the next test is Monday, which means we only have a few days."

"And the main thing we need to sort out right _now_ is if and how we're doing this, and who's making the trip." 

Rick half-raises his hand; Michonne is straightening up next to him and the two of them exchange a long look; apparently they've reached the point with each other where they can speak without words. It's Michonne who answers. 

"We're down to help, however we can," Michonne starts. "But..."

"But there's Judith and Carl to think about. We can't leave them here alone- I mean, we _could_ , if it was just Carl, he's old enough to get it- but if things are going to hell, and it looks like they are, I'm not stranding my kids here alone."

"And bringing a toddler on board doesn't seem like the wisest idea, for something like this," Michonne adds, apologetically. "No offense to the ship."

"None taken," Connor says, reaching out to grab the tablet from Heath and looking at the screen. "Safe siding it, we can handle up to two dozen on board, right? That goes down to twelve with as long a trip as we're taking. But we're looking at a minimum of six people to keep it in the air."

"You've got people on place at Dockside?" After that, and Connor's answering nod, Daryl can't make out much of the rest of Rovia's end of the conversation. They seem to be talking about training and experience. There are a few more _yeah, buts_ on Connor's end than Daryl feels entirely comfortable with. 

Maggie's raising her hand apologetically.

"Not to be a downer, but what you're talking about, it's a really long shot. And things are going to get bad enough here as they are. I don't know anything about ships, or Earthside politics. All things being equal, I think I'd rather stick with the fight that I know, you know?" Saying it out loud apparently allows her to relax a bit, because she smiles. "Besides, I put too much damn effort into that farm to let Beth turn half the soy fields to flowers."

The joke gets a few laughs, and Connor's turning the tablet around so they can all get a good look at Rovia's choppy feed. "You want to repeat that?"

"Yeah. Hi. I just said, this is a long shot. Even if this mission works, it'll be pointless if it comes back to a planet that's starved to death."

"That's all part of this too," Sasha confirms, though it looks like some of the wind's been knocked out of her sails. "And that's why I wanted to pull everyone together here, so we can start coordinating. The fight might happen to prevent that, or it might come _once_ it's happened. But either way, we're going to need to get weapons redistributed and communication lines worked out."

"There's a longer timeline on that, though," Connor chimes in, sounding impatient. "Whereas we have two days to come up with a plan to take the ship."

"And the first part of that is making sure we have enough people on board to keep it in the air," Sasha finishes for him. "I'm hoping that even if you all can't make it, you can recommend people who'd be a good fit."

She turns to raise her eyebrows at Daryl. It takes him a moment to understand what she's asking, even though he's known the question's been coming for days, now. 

He's not sure he's given it as much thought as he should've.

He'd hated being stuck on the ship when he'd first come out here, and that one had been twenty times the size of the RV at least. And hadn't had much love for life Earthside, either. And while it might be more of a temporary visit, it might not be. And for as fucked as things are, here, shit. There's people here. And a lot of them are more settled than him. And with him goin' over to the Saviors, now that he's got eyes on Michonne and Rick, well. 

He's already cut himself out of their equation. It ain't like he can just go back home to the Techniki enclave by next Tuesday. 

A few dozen light years won't make that much difference. 

"I'm in," To the floor, more than anyone. When he raises his beer to drink, the hangnail on his thumb catches briefly on the fabric of his shirt, and everyone's watching him. 

Sasha looks relieved. Rick and Michonne look worried. And over the screen, he's pretty sure, so does Rovia. 

\--- 

He's a little dizzy from watching the camera view swoop all over the place, but he's starting to learn to look away when it happens. 

"Paul? What about you?"

"I'll go," Paul says, snapping his attention back to the screen to find that there are too many people watching his reaction for him to get into his list of reservations. He's spent enough time stuck here, staring at the ceiling, that it's gotten terrifyingly long. 

There being so few options, though, it hadn't taken him long to decide. He gets on the ship and either dies in the vacuum of space, or winds up on Earth trying to convince strangers to spend a lot of time and energy pulling together a rescue mission for people they've never met. He stays here, and either manages to stay hidden for the rest of his life, or he finds out exactly how short _the rest of his life_ is going to be. 

With Rick and Maggie talking like they are, though, he's starting to think that there might actually be a chance in hell of mustering up a solid resistance. A few days and a broken hand ago, he'd have thought he could been of some use in that department. 

Right now, though, he's sitting under an examination room table trying to ensure that the light from the screen doesn't reach the window. His entire arm is sore and he hasn't spoken to anyone outside of Alex or Lee for two days. Apart from the lack of electrified glass, he might as well be sitting on the floor of his cell. 

And right now, he's powerless and pathetic. Useless. But six months, a few dozen light years, and a planet of people who don't know any better, that might make all the difference. 

Still, regardless of everything Sasha's been saying, it's hard not to see his best option for what it is: running away. 

He doesn't have the heart to say so, any more than he has the heart to say no. 

\--- 

_Friday, 05/16/2194, 22:03_

"Who else is in on this?" Rovia asks from the screen. "I mean, it's all of you, and Connor, Sasha, Dwight, Daryl, Heath, and me are going..."

"I'm not going," Heath says, taking the tablet back from Conner. "Once Dwight's gone, I'm the inside man for the resistance." The mug he's making for Rovia's benefit falters, becomes more apologetic, and he turns the tablet around again. With the camera pointing in the other direction, Rovia's the only one who can't see how guilty the guy looks. 

"So we'd need one more to even hit the minimum for making this work," Rovia says, "and despite everyone's best intentions, that room you're all sitting in is looking a little light on experienced crew, let alone pilots."

"We've got three more from dockside." Sasha says, looking at Connor to back her up. 

"Two more pilots and one in command control. Already set to brief them on the details once we've got them sorted."

Daryl snorts. "So why ain't they here?"

"They're too essential to risk exposing them by walking them into a room half full of unknowns." Connor shrugs. "Nothing against anyone here. Just being cautious."

Dwight nods at Daryl. "Also, what we don't know, Negan can't get out of us." 

"What he said," Connor smirks, ducking into the camera's range again. "We'll have six months to train everyone en route. Won't be ideal, but it's doable."

Sasha gets up, crosses over to pour another few inches of beer into her cup. "And I want this out from the start," her eyes land on Daryl briefly as she turns to the rest of the room. "Dwight and I might be the one cobbling this together, but as soon as we're dockside, this is Connor's show. Once we land, it'll be on Daryl to get us where we need to be, and on Paul to do the talking. But none of this is happening in a silo. Whether you're making the trip or not, if we can't back each other up, it's not only us that we're screwing over, it's everyone here."

Michonne nods; Maggie, Rick and everyone else are right behind her.

Dwight smirks. "You know how you said you didn't want to come off sounding like a schoolteacher?"

"Screw you." She sips her beer. "My point is, we've got room for a few more people. With supplies and contact being cut off here, and the fact that we've all had to go through basic first aid, I don't feel right about taking anyone out of SciMed just to babysit a few of us, but we've got allies there I could invite. And, everyone- Rick, Daryl, Dwight, this is for you especially- keep your eyes peeled. I know everyone's in the same sinking boat, here, but we've got room for a few refugees. If it's doable, we'll try to make it happen."

There's a murmur from the screen, Heath scowls down at it, shaking his head. Rovia must repeat himself, though, because Heath looks up. "Word over there is that SciMed's stretched pretty thin, but he's down to train himself up on what he can while he's stuck there."

An irritated burst comes from the screen; Heath smirks and presses the tablet against his chest, muffling it for a moment. Holding it up again, he rolls his eyes. "Well, what the hell else are you going to do over there? Just camp out under a table or whatever the fuck it is you're doing?"

\--- 

Paul rolls his eyes. Now that Heath's gone ahead and overstated his offer- what he'd said was that he could probably get Lee to give him a rundown on how to access the on-board diagnostic files in case of an emergency- it seems petty to argue. 

Besides. Heath's got a point. He doesn't have much else to do, at least not until they're doing whatever it is they're actually doing. 

"Fine," Paul says, loudly enough that it should be heard by everyone out there, but hopefully not so loud that his voice carries out into the hallway; he's still not so sure about the acoustics, here, any more than he is about who might be on the other side of the walls. "So we've got enough that we have a chance at making it to Earth once we're on board the ship. And we've got six months to figure out what we're doing once we get there. So all we need to do is figure out how to get launched in the meantime."

Connor speaks first. "Supplies are already in place to be loaded onboard immediately following a successful test on Monday."

"Dockside's already sent out the prep files to the Council," Sasha adds. "They're on a twenty-four hour standby once testing's completed. Which means we'll have to move quickly to get everyone on board. Easy enough, except for the fact that we know Negan's going to make a play. So- and this is where I need you all to chime and let me know if it's a bad plan. We will need to keep him out of play."

Paul can't quite make out what's happening next; the camera's mostly pointing at the floor. He can hear Dwight's voice, though, and then Sasha and Maggie chiming in. 

"It would save a lot of effort. But he's got control of all the weapons. Are you telling me that you two could pull it off?"

"Got a wrench," Daryl's saying, as the camera rights itself. "Failing that, I've got my bare fucking hands."

Next to him, Dwight's nodding, albeit a little reticently. "I'm down to help, on that front. He's got me pulling guard shifts often enough. But I'll be outnumbered by Simon, Milo or whatever other guys he's got taking point on any given hour."

"What happens if Negan's actually out of the equation?" Paul's got his suspicions, but he needs to ask. Assassination seems like an increasingly valid option- he'll think more about the ramifications regarding how easily he's accepting it _later_ \- but even so. There'll be consequences, and from the looks of things, Dwight seems to already know what they are.

"Another power grab from the inside. Simon, most likely, and he's a believer." Next to him, Daryl's muttering something that Paul can't make out, and Dwight's shaking his head. "It's not that simple. Most of everyone on the crew is actually _following_ him. If they weren't, it wouldn't be just us in here right now."

"Also, from a timing perspective, if something like that happens, AdSec or the Council can trigger a colony-wide lockdown," Connor adds. "Meaning, there's nothing any of us can do to actually get the RV launched. So we're looking at a fairly narrow section of circumstance that would allow for a positive outcome."

"You sound like Eugene," Paul points out; Connor shrugs into the camera. "All right. So I'm reading it that if the perfect opportunity presents itself, it could be a possibility, but we aren't banking on it."

"I'm thinking we're going to have to go with a distraction," Sasha says. "Like, a small, well-timed controlled explosion at AdSec's briefing hall. We make a break for it while he's dealing with that"

"I dunno," Rick's voice comes over the line. "It seems a little obvious. He might just ignore it. And even then, wouldn't you be running the same risk of a lockdown?"

"Depends on the distraction," Paul realizes, straightening up. He's doesn't have an answer yet, but his brain's coming online. He's working towards it. "Whatever it is, it can't come from out of nowhere, and we can't be setting ourselves up to be fighting a bunch of Savior loyalists on our way out, right?"

Sasha's leaning into the camera's field, nodding at him to continue. 

"What if we... how about this. The assassination angle's worth pursuing- at least the threat of it, right? I mean, Dwight, if you know that Simon's got his eye on the throne, Negan probably does too."

Heath aim's the camera at Dwight; after a few seconds, Paul can see him nod. 

"Okay. So." Paul settles back against the side of the table, checking again to make sure the glow from the tablet isn't reaching the window. "As soon as the testing's done, we start a rumor that the Council's planning a hit at their next meeting. Maybe even hint that Simon's presence has been requested at Chambers. It'll push Negan to go after them himself, since it sound like that's what he's been going for anyway."

"Wouldn't they call for a lockdown the moment they heard he was coming?"

"Exactly. Only... if they're already so far into covering only their own asses, they'll probably localize it. It will be at the Chambers, maybe the west side of Admin, but not Dockside." He stops to think for a minute. "It actually might draw some heat, especially if Negan thinks to put his Saviors on the offensive." _Actually,_ Paul realizes, it'll start a war. "Saviors and AdSec will report to Chambers, and we'll go around their backs. Heath, you'd need to be ready to get some weapons out to the enclaves before this goes down, but at least at the outset, it'll keep the action where the guiltier parties are all gathered."

"That would start a war," Rick echoes him; onscreen, he and Maggie are exchanging uneasy looks.

Daryl's biting at a hangnail, or something, on his thumb. He straightens up now to scowl at Rick. "It's _been_ coming. It's why we're here, ain't it?"

"We'd need to set up caches over the weekend," Heath says. "Dwight?"

"I could get the requisitions through without much trouble. It's moving them that will be a bigger issue."

"I could help with that," Maggie offers, after a moment. "We've got carts going in and out of Admin all the time. Long as we don't have to stash them for long. We've been getting hit with inspections every few days."

"If the 'culturalists can get them as far as Ag, we can help with the rest. Been working on new cache sites ever since you joined up." This, he's telling to Daryl, apparently. "No worries about the house." 

"So," Sasha sighs. "We get weapons in place before the test. Start prepping for our exit as soon as the test happens. When do we want to get word out about the Council's assassination plan?"

"We wait until the morning of the testing. Anything more than that, he'll have too much time to think before he acts." Dwight straightens up. "Anything we can do about the charges?" There's no reaction in the room that Paul can see. "I mean. Full charges in the enclave. Sabotage the rest of the blasters so that anyone grabbing them when the orders come out is dealing with half-charged gear. Get them to pull their punches as far as lethality goes."

Maggie brightens at this. "It would help. I mean, we're still talking about trained forces against the rest of us."

"The blasters are easy," Daryl shrugs, watching her. "Hardly any kickback. Judith could do it."

"Judith will _not_ ," Michonne's voice comes from off-camera; it sounds like she might be smiling. 

This is starting to seem like a framework, at least, if not a down-to-brass-tacks plan. "So what happens when the first shot's fired?" 

For a moment, Paul watches the room watch Sasha as she thinks it over. "AdSec, the Saviors, whatever, they'll splinter. Not completely- like I said, there are a lot of people on Negan's side because they want to be. But not everyone. Odds are good that there are some people looking for an out. This would give them a chance to do so, and do it with a blaster in their hands. Even if Negan doesn't go down, there'll be a power grab. Which means lots of internal confusion."

"But the enclaves will be ready for new alliances," Paul suggests, hopefully. On the corner of his screen, the battery indicator goes from green to red. He's at five percent, and Lee hadn't given him a charger when he'd brought the tablet up with his meds. 

It's depressing. He's gotten used to wanting to be somewhere else, and he's starting to wrap his head around the idea of actually going to an alien planet. But right now, there's a tiny red icon reminding him that he's _here_ and everyone else is gathered up in a room he's never seen before, and his tiny little connection to that is about to be cut off. 

Story of his life. 

Maggie stands up, crossing the room to refill her beer; she's looking towards where Michonne and Rick are sitting. 

"I think so. It'll take some groundwork. But if it's coming, it's coming. At least this way, we've got a head start."

"I'm about to be cut off," he says, blinking as his field of view swings wildly as Heath's face comes into view. "So if I disappear, I'm in. Just, ah. Someone, come tell me what-"

The screen goes dark. 

_Five percent, my ass_.


	27. Chapter 27

_Saturday, 05/17/2194, 15:00_

In some way or another, Paul's been preparing for this since he was ten, and he's got twenty years of education, training, and experience. Doubling up on engineering and management courses. Listening to what Gregory and his cronies said, what they didn't, and what the spaces meant in between. Learning to negotiate, to _manage_. He's been _groomed_. 

And what Paul's stuck on, sitting on the edge of his bed, weighing the effort of getting up against the fact that he knows he needs to get back to learning how to be a goddamned medic in the next few hours, is this:

He's never even been on a ship. He's watched cruisers and haulers come and go from the docks, he's seen vids. He's run simulations and examined schematics and signed off on dozens of structural modifications, but knowing how a ship's built isn't the same as knowing how to _live_ on it.

And that's only half of it. Because he's read radio signals, too. Seen telescope images, heat signatures, and maps of what the sky looks like out past the omnipresent dust clouds. He knows the major solar systems; he'd studied the histories of their exploration. And knowing that Earth is 74 light years away isn't the same as being able to actually contemplate making the journey. 

Hell, he's never even left the _Colony_ , except for one school field trip out past the membrane to the remote erosion monitoring station. Even then, with failsafe upon failsafe built into their suits, they'd only gotten as far as the tether would reach. 

He mostly remembers holding his breath and not wanting to go any farther. The familiar landscape- usually so constant, so red and barren and _dull_ \- had suddenly become a vast living wasteland, ready to end them all in an instant. The weight of that realization, and the cowardice that had come with it, had nearly crushed him inside his pressurized sealsuit. 

And now, suddenly, on the other end of all this, there's _Earth_ , which hadn't seemed alien at all until the notion that he's actually _going_ there had started sinking in. There'd been news and movies and gossip pouring through from Dockside every six months. Communications from the extended family, Mom had called it, whenever the topic came up

And now, he has to keep telling himself that it's cool, that it's no big deal. Half the colony probably still calls it _home_ , after all, and more than half of the people he knows at all had been _born there_. 

And they'd made the trip just fine.

But they'd had reasons for leaving in the first place. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 05/18/2194, 17:04_

Negan's had Dwight running around over Dockside with Simon all weekend, but apart from the small off-shift patrols, there's not much going on. Daryl's been off rotation since 15:00, intent on blowing his credits- he's not going to have any use for them tomorrow, after all- in an effort to drink down and drown out the _hurry up and wait_ that's been gnawing at him since Friday night. 

Tomorrow, if everything goes well, he'll be on a ship bound for Earth. If _that_ goes well, it'll be a long time before he gets back here. The odds are even better, though, that it won't- that _he_ won't. 

Three beers aren't much, against all of that. 

He thinks he should be packing, but he can't think of anything worth taking. 

Instead, he winds up heading for the perimeter path, without even really planning on it. The walking's doin' him some sort of good, like something's shaking loose in his head, finally. Maybe it's just the delayed realization that this might be his last chance to take any sort of walk that's worth anything at all. 

He doesn't mean to stop, not intentionally. But his boots are rooted into the dirt and he's staring out past the membrane, like it had always been the plan. It's too dark to see much at all besides the light reflected from the strip and the 'culturalist bunks. 

But Merle's out there, somewhere. Between the sand that's probably finished burying him, and darkness overtaking the landmarks, there's nothing to go by; for all he knows, he's staring right at him. 

\--- 

The footsteps on the path are kicking up enough dirt and gravel that it has to be deliberate; Daryl turns to find Rick coming down the path from Ag towards him. Too startled by how glad he is to see him, he almost forgets to glance over his shoulder. 

The perimeter's empty. No one's in sight. 

"Bob said he saw you leaving the strip. Kind of thought you might be coming past here."

"Yeah," he says, not sure what there is to admit to, and not sure what to do with his hands. He shoves them in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "You all doin' all right?"

"All things considered. Got the weapons stashed. Besides. _We're_ not the ones staring down the barrel of a six-month interplanetary flight tomorrow. You still going?"

Daryl blinks. Nods. He'd been thinking about it so hard that thinking of anything _else_ hadn't occurred to him. "Yeah." He's careful to smirk, 'cause Rick's looking concerned. "Know how it is. Thought I'd go down, save the colony, stop by to chase the raccoons out of the old house."

"The cabin?"

"Yeah."

Rick turns to stand next to him, looking at the hints of their own reflections in the membrane. "I get why you're doin' this," he says, after a minute. "And I'm glad that it's you. I mean, I trust you, you know? More than most." 

He nods, but when Rick goes quiet and Daryl glances over, it's clear that he ain't said his full piece yet. 

" _What?_ "

"Just that, before you go all mad spaceman, you know. This is your home too, all right?"

"No more'n anywhere else ever has been." He's being unfair, and that ain't how he meant it, not entirely. He ain't tryin' to spike Rick in the face with this shit. "I mean, this week, at least. AdSec _sucks_."

Rick snorts, then laughs. "I'm glad you're getting out of _there_ , at least, even if it means..." Rick waves a hand out towards the wasteland; for a second, Daryl's sure he's talking about Merle- that Rick's managed to locate him through some sense or muscle memory that he doesn't possess and should. "74 light years. Shit."

"Done it before." 

There are voices and quiet laughter coming from around the bend. Too far out to know who it is, but too close to risk hanging out much longer. Rick leans in, speaking quick and quiet. "All the same. Be careful, all right?"

"'Course," his mouth twitches into a grin because it seems like the thing to do. "You too." 

There's a sudden clap on his shoulder that tightens into a grip, just for a second. Then it's gone. 

"I'll see you around, Daryl." 

"Yeah." He keeps his eyes forward, hoping like hell the one word's enough, and listens to Rick's footsteps fading up the path. 

\--- 

_Sunday, 05/18/2194, 18:01_

Paul startles awake at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, and nearly falls out of his chair. 

"Stasis pods, huh?"

Blinking, he straightens up to blink at the borrowed desk in his borrowed examination room. 

His face itches, his neck's sore, and his legs haven't woken up yet. Worse, though, Alex is standing over him, holding the tablet that Paul must have fallen asleep reading, and looking at him like he's put the final pieces together.

Even before the room completely swims into focus, he knows that he's been caught- that Alex knows exactly what he's looking at. And of course he would; the only stasis machines left on the colony have been eroding for twenty or thirty years now, getting picked apart and scrapped for metal. 

Except for the one on the RV. He'd know _that_ , too. 

Finally, after days of dancing along the edges of not knowing, not wanting to know, and knowing that Paul isn't in the habit of oversharing even when he' hasn't been ordered not to, Alex just _asks_. 

"So. When are you leaving?" 

Risking a stretch- he's not sure why it is that he's convinced he's just making himself a larger target- he shakes his head. "I'm not sure." It's not a _complete_ lie. There might only be a matter of hours between now and the RV test, but it's plenty of time for everything to come crashing down. 

Alex shifts to his other foot, like he's deciding which battles he wants to fight, and hands the tablet back. "That wouldn't get you all that far, you know. I mean, if it came down to it. Stasis isn't much use unless you know medical treatment is waiting on the other end of the trip."

"I know. But it's all we've got."

Alex's eyes go wide as the realization strikes, and then the disappointment sets in. " _Christ_ , you're planning to head out there without a medic, aren't you."

"Um..."

"No, see," Alex holds a hand up, sparing him the effort of bullshitting. "Either I would know everything about it- the way I do when it comes to the Council's plan to do the exact same thing in three weeks, by the way- or I would know absolutely _nothing_. Because if you _had_ someone in place, there'd be no need for you all to be coming around half-involving _me_ in this nebulous fucking scheme instead."

 _It wasn't my idea_ , Paul wants to say, but it's not his idea to defend in the first place. So he apologizes instead. "I'm sorry. None of this is ideal, I know, believe me."

"You don't say," Alex snorts, staring up at the ceiling for a few seconds. But then he lets out a long-suffering sigh. It's the kind of thing Paul had found irritating, back when it might have mattered. Now it's almost endearing. 

Maybe it's because he knows that opportunities to hear it are running out. Or maybe it's just that Paul's becoming an opportunistic bastard who can tell when someone's about to give in. 

All it'll take is a push, a self deprecating smile, and a carefully crafted question. 

"So... If you knew a bunch of idiots were going to jettison themselves out into space without a doctor, what would you want them to know?"

"That it's a bad idea," he replies, unimpressed. "And to back off and let the Council handle it."

Paul sobers. "And if you knew they were looking to save their own asses and leave us to hang?"

He's waved over to the bed so Alex can take the chair. Alex's tone is flat when he asks, "you've got proof?"

He doesn't, not really. Despite what he wants to believe, it's a detail he's not quite been able to ignore. "I've got the word of the people who saved my life." He buries the shamefacedness of it all under a shrug, and sits down where he's told. "That's all."

Sprawling back in the chair in a move that seems twice as ungainly as it probably is, thanks to the uniform he's is wearing and the staff desk he's sitting at, Alex regards him seriously as the moment stretches out. 

"Ignoring the fact that you're engaging in treason, you _do_ realize the odds of you actually making it off the Colony, much less to Earth, are incredibly shitty, right?"

"But they're no worse than the Council's. And if their plan was any more solid than ours, Yang would've announced it by now." He tries to weigh out the pros and cons of saying more against everything he's already confirmed. But with everything Alex has already put together, it's probably too late. "From what I've heard, all anyone's heard over Dockside is questions about the _away_ mission. Nothing about reinstating contact, much less coming back."

Alex's eyes are closed; he's frowning. After a minute, though, his eyes open and he regards Paul. There's still disappointment there, but not much. 

Maybe he's reading too much into it.

"Okay," Alex finally relents. "First off, I'm not condoning anything you may or may not be doing, hypothetical or otherwise, all right?"

"All right."

"And this is assuming everyone in your merry little rebellion, or whatever, is at least caught up on their basic first aid." Blinking, he straightens out, and gestures at Paul for him to pick up his tablet. "But space is a whole different ball game. Here's what you've got to look out for..." 

\--- 

His head's swimming and his eyes don't want to stay open. His hands are cramped from trying to take notes on the tablet. He's got a dozen more spaceflight-related conditions that he hadn't even thought to worry about until they're glowing back up at him from the screen, and he's got a headache.

He's only got a few hours left, here, too, and he hasn't even realized it; it just doesn't _sink in_ until Alex is stretching, telling him to get some sleep, and showing himself to the door. 

Paul watches him go, idly wondering what would happen if he asked him to stay. 

Really, though, he should be telling him goodbye. 

He does neither.


	28. Chapter 28

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 04:30_

Sasha's at the door. She wants to know if he's ready. 

He's not. 

With a brief scan of the examination room that leaves him feeling numb, Paul follows her anyway. 

\---

CHAPTER

 _Monday, 05/19/2194, 08:15_

Heath passes him the vocal ID for the direct comms feed over breakfast, and with that, Daryl realizes, this is really, finally _happening_. 

\---

"Now, same as last time, the RDR training module certification's required for lockdown access. So Heath's taking point over Dockside, and if you're not one of the twelve, you don't get front row seats to the party." 

Heath's quick to nod, the way people who aren't Simon or Dwight do whenever Negan puts them in charge of anything. A few heads over, Sasha squares her jaw in an expression that does a very good job of looking like jealousy. It's for Negan's benefit, and it works; he's smirking at her back once he's dismissed the patrol out to Dockside, and then turns back to the assembly

"As far as the rest of you go," Negan continues, "we're going to need full coverage in the enclaves, and down on the strip as well. Anywhere people are gathering to watch the feedscreens, we want our our presence known. We don't need any idiots pissing themselves because they can't tell the difference from a test and a launch. Right?"

A chorus of assent bubbles up from the crowd, and Negan holds up his hands for quiet. "Now. Let me reiterate. Bathrooms to briefing halls, I want a wide net, just close enough to let them know that the colony's got their eye on them, but not so close to Dockside that they panic and call the whole thing off. We could move on them now, but until they're not _ripe_ yet, and I ain't interested in bitter fruit, so don't fuck it up." He pulls a face, stretches, and waves Simon down to the front. "All right. Channel 12, teams of eight. He's got the rosters, and you've got the intel, so what are you gonna do about it?"

"Toe the fucking line." Daryl mouths the words along with everyone else. With any luck, this'll be the last time he has to even hear them. 

Right now, he's listening for something more specific as Simon assigns patrol leads out to the enclaves. Jody's crew has the strip, Milo's got the Technicki enclave, and Tanner's got the commons. 

As the briefing hall starts to empty out, his palms start sweating. He's getting twitchy, here, and sooner or later, it's gonna start to show. 

"Ed, Chad, Melinda, Ali, Steve, Daryl, Mark G., and Brock," Simon calls out. "You're with Dwight on the wall. I want you over Dockside in twenty." 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 08:39_

Twenty minutes isn't a long time, but at least with all the people scurrying around the armory, there ain't nobody paying him so much mind that they notice how fuckin' twitchy he is as he gets in line. 

He's issued a helmet- no visor on this one, thank _god_ , the helmet's uncomfortable enough as it is- and a blaster. As soon as he's clear of the crowd and back outside of AdSec, he turns his headlamp on and dials into the direct comms feed using the code Heath had passed him. It chimes, and he can hear Sasha cutting herself off mid-sentence. 

"It's me," he says, just before Dwight, twenty feet away, emerges from the armory, announces his presence on the line as well.

"All right," Sasha says. "Good. Tracking's routed to me. Crew's on board, prep's underway. You're set up on two-channel feeds, but remember, mind your fucking talkback switches and don't blow this."

"Sure thing, boss," Dwight says, sparing Daryl the effort. "Good luck."

"You too, _all_ of you. See you in a bit."

\--- 

Following Dwight across the edge of the commons to the Dockside end of the Admin wall, Daryl keeps his ear on the line. Connor and his contacts in the control room are going back and forth, running through the systems checks; more than half of what they're sayin' don't make any sense at all. Every now and again, Heath or Sasha will get on the line with an update. Always the same thing. _Stay tuned. Be ready._

Mostly, he's trying to block out Ed and Chad's blathering. 

It's not working as well as he'd like.

"Don't see why we're stuck out here," Chad whines, picking his way around the low concrete wall delineating the garage Abe's team had dismantled last year. "It's not like anyone's gonna think 'hey, let's get _closer_ to the impending depressurization risk', you know?"

"Nah, see," Ed scratches his gut. "If it goes, it'll be quicker for us. Instantaneous."

"The airlocks will hold," Dwight reminds them, the censure in his voice clear and deliberate. "And, if you're bored, remember: this is the most vulnerable access point into the hangar. Anyone looking to sabotage shit will be heading this way. If you can't handle anything more than babysitting people drooling at feedscreens, I could call in for a transfer." 

That shuts them up well enough, but now that they're quiet, it's maybe a little _too_ easy to focus on Sasha's end of the comms. 

Because she's on the open channel, and she's hailing Negan. This is it. 

\--- 

"Negan, sir? It's Sasha."

"Where the fuck is Heath?"

"I'm here," Heath cuts in. "Wanted you to hear this directly."

In front of him, Dwight pauses to tie his boot, than continues his pacing down towards where the rest of their crew is starting to spread out among the weeds and broken concrete. 

"Well?" Negan snorts. "Don't keep me in suspense."

"Ah... Right. Sorry. I think we've-" she breaks off, starts over. "I was coming up on the Admin-Dockside tunnel when the Council crossed up ahead of me."

"Heading in to OC?"

"No. Going back to Chambers, looking all freaked out. And I heard Councilwoman Hodges saying something about logging something into or out of the armory. She sounded pissed, but Coates cut her off, telling her that with everyone being so dispersed and you being right there in the open, now was the time."

Simon's voice cuts in. "Did they see you?"

"I ducked behind a side door. They went on past. I couldn't hear more, though. Sorry."

"Interesting," Negan says. "Armory, you hearing this?"

"Yes sir."

"Everything looking copacetic?"

"Yes sir."

"Uh-huh. Did you check _everywhere_?"

There's a pause on the line, some muted muttering, before the armory clerk replies. "Sending Silas back to lockers two and three now. Hang on."

For a few minutes, the open channel goes silent; it could be that Negan or Simon's muted it. It could be that everyone, like him, is just waiting. 

Dwight's taken his helmet off, using the beam from the headlamp to point out everyone's position assignments. "Daryl, I want you on the loading bay. Ed, you're on the emergency hatch. Melinda, Mark, I want you both down at the perimeter end. Everyone else, I'm sick of listening to your asses. Spread out in between."

Daryl adjusts his headlamp, heading for the ramp, careful not to drag his feet through a patchy outgrowth of weeds that's managed to take hold in the old cracked concrete. Ed, breaking off to head for the airlock, makes no effort to avoid it. 

The ramp ends at the base of a wall-sized door that he's never seen open; it doesn't even look like it could, so he turns his back on it to scan out across the commons. Outside the membrane, the dust is down enough that there are stars visible, here and there. Not many, though, compared to the headlamps spreading out in clumps all the way out to Alexandria. 

That end of the colony isn't what he needs to be worrying about right now, because there's the chime of a new channel opening up, and Negan's voice is biting over the line. 

"We're changing the play. Patrol heads, stay where you are and await further instructions. Milo, soon as you're out there, find us a plasma torch and send it back here. Cowards got themselves bolted down tighter than Tanner's sister, and we're gonna have to cut through. Carter, I want you to round up those fuckups in the armory, throw them in locker three until I get there. Everyone else, report immediately to the Plaza. If we're goin' in, we're going to need crowd control."

That's it. That's the distraction. 

Out here, though, the response is underwhelming. There's no sudden surge of troops getting into position, nobody priming for an attack on the Council. All they've got on this side of the Admin wall is Ed, reappearing from around the side of the hanger and looking at him like he's waiting for him to tell him how to wipe his own ass. Daryl starts walking, in case that'll remind him how _that_ works, only to have Dwight calling after him. 

"Daryl, hold up," he says, switching to comms. "Negan. I can't keep eyes on two doors and the perimeter at the same time. If there's something going on..."

" _Fine_ , then. Patrol leads, you all have a plus one to sit out the dance with."

Dwight nods at Ali and Steve, who're hesitating before catching up with Ed and Chad. Melinda and Mark approach grumbling about the back and forth, but they don't stop to complain, they just follow the others around the corner of the Admin wall.

Falling back to the hangar, closer to the airlock than the loading dock, Dwight and Daryl settle back to watch the scattered lights of Savior helmets returning to Admin. There ain't no point in talking; right now, all they have to do is wait for the emergency hatch to open. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:22_

There are still people milling around the strip, but with the Saviors withdrawing, and most of the colony being dark, everything looks peaceful, and he thinks that if it were lighter outside, right now wouldn't be the worst way to remember it. But behind them and to the east, on the other side of the wall and the comms link, things are a different story. Simon and Negan are shouting out orders, getting squads sent out to saturate the Admin offices and residences in advance of Negan's central attack.

"All right, people," Negan addresses the open comms channel. "Here's how it's gonna be. No one gets in or out of Admin. Not from the main gate, not from AdSec, and not from Dockside- you keep that shit locked _down_. Soon as the torch gets here, we're heading in to Chambers and getting some motherfuckin' answers."

The commotion- not to mention the absence of Councilman Coates, who's at least nominally in charge- has been noticed in Docks command; between the feeds from Heath and Sasha, it sounds like there's some concern about continuing on with the engine test. 

For a moment, it sounds like it's all going to be scrubbed, that they're finished before they even started. 

Eventually, though, the decision comes down from the Connor, in the RV: the control room is focusing on what's in front of them. 

It doesn't take them too much time, after that, to get their shit together, because there are alerts bleeding through the feed, and the ground is starting to shake. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:30_

Paul's lost track of the exact time, crouched between crates in the RV's cargo bay, but he knows it's been hours. 

A while ago, there'd been footsteps coming on board, voices bouncing down through the metal, echoing off the walls. Lights had started coming on, bright at first, and then dimming to nearly nothing. 

He's been sitting here long enough that taking the risk to get up and stretch his cramped legs is all he's been able to think about; when the the deafening roar of the engines comes on line, threatening to shake the teeth right out of his head as the noise screams into his brain, the risk finally becomes worth it.

He grabs hold of the nearest crate, hoisting himself up and back- the stretch feels amazing- but then he's slamming his eyes shut against the harsh bright overhead lights. 

No alarms are going off, at least not in here. Nobody's shouting at him over the intercom to identify himself. 

He lets his back thud against the wall- it's vibrating, just like the floor- and takes a more careful look at the room. It's not large- maybe twenty feet by ten- but it's tall, with a perforated metal catwalk wrapping around the perimeter, up above orderly stacks of interlocking crates. If there are cameras, they're not in his line of sight. 

Hopefully, the reverse is true. Sasha hadn't been able to give him much by way of detail, when she'd told him to stay low and keep hidden. 

There's a new sound creeping underneath the already monstrous roar, a high staticky hum that's peaking so sharply that he has to jam his thumbs into his ears; the wall's shuddering, now, hard enough to bounce him forward so fast that he has to step fast to keep himself from falling. That, too, is harder going than expected; the floor comes up to meet him just a fraction of a second too soon. 

And then there's the sensation of being let down, of his weight shifting again. 

The noise doesn't _completely_ cease, but it relents to the point that he can hear his own labored breathing over the ringing in his ears.

It's just a test run, and it's over

It's not _real_ , yet. 

But his skin is still buzzing, and as he rubs his arms to bat the sensation away, he leans back against the wall and thinks, precisely, _fuck_. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:37_

Daryl undoes the chin strap and takes his helmet off, scratching at his ear as he shrugs back at Dwight, who's shaking his head like he's got something to say about it. 

Or maybe not; once the helmet's back in place, he catches Negan, mid-rant. 

"-at _least_ one rat in the mix, so if that's you, I'd like to give you the opportunity to save yourself the trouble, and just shit yourselves right now. We will get to you in due fucking time. Now. While we're all waiting for Milo to deliver unto us that which was requested, I want status reports. All points, sound off."

Just then, Sasha comes on the line, mutedly. "Be advised, testing is completed. Nine minutes until hangar re-pressurization is complete. Ten until nonessential personnel return to Dockside Control."

"We're here and all clear," Dwight replies; it takes a second to realize he's actually replying to Negan; for a few minutes, Daryl just tries to picture where everyone is at. The Saviors who aren't congregated in the plaza are spread out throughout Admin, barring the patrol leads left scattered across the colony. 

Jody's reporting the strip's busy, but nothing's going on, when suddenly, Milo's voice interrupts her. 

"Negan, this is Milo. We got the torch just fine, but we're coming back with a guest. Just caught a girl with a blaster in her hand out behind OT."

 _Shit_. 

Dwight's shaking his head, shrugging back at him, though his face is unreadable against the glare of the headlamp. 

This isn't part of the plan. 

"Okay," Negan says, after a moment. "I'm just fucking waiting here to see if any of you other assholes have some last-minute bullshit nonsense you'd like to throw my way. You know, now that we've gotten _this_ far... No? Everybody's hunky dory and ready to fucking _focus_ here? All right." He exhales heavily enough that his mic picks it up. "Tanner, send your second out to flank them. Danny, have your guy grab a cart, and go pick them up. She gives you any shit, go ahead and stun her, but I want that bitch, and that plasma torch, here two minutes ago. And you guys, you're the welcome wagon. Go out and make a good-" 

Daryl rips off his helmet, striding over to Dwight. "We gotta-"

"We _can't_."

Daryl snorts. " _You_ can't." He whips his head back across towards Alexandria; from this far away, all he can see is a small commotion. He doesn't even realize that he's started moving towards it until Dwight's wrenching his arm back. "Ten minutes. Tops." 

Two lights are coming across the commons; one of them is jerking around, like whoever they're dragging with them is putting up a struggle. Over the comms, someone's telling Negan that they're hearing fighting coming from inside the Chamber. And at the main gate, the Saviors are starting to pour out. 

It's fucking chaos; wrestling his arm free, he trips over the tail end of the old garage's foundation. "Fuck, the counterattack-

"Yeah," Dwight hisses back, his helmet smacking sharply into his shoulder as he regains his grip. "But Rick and Maggie have a fully charged blasters, allies, and a plan. They're not helpless."

That might be true, but across the way, the Saviors have wrestled the girl onto the cart, and it's headlights are cutting a wide swath across the commons as it turns, heading this way. 

"I know you can fight," Dwight's grinding out, practically right against his ear, "but you're in on this because we're going to need someone who knows how to _fix_ shit, all right? Six months is a long time for things to fall apart, and it's going to be all hands on deck as it is. You want to do some good, you prepare for _that_."

"Fuck you," Daryl tugs his arm free, and manages to take a single step before he hears the all-too familiar sound of a blaster charging up.

"I won't kill you." Dwight says, pressing it against his back, either so he knows that it's _there_ or so the passengers won't catch sight of it. "But if I have to keep you out of play, I won't fucking hesitate. This sucks, but it's bigger than us, all right?" 

Catching his breath, he nods, because he can't do anything else. 

Because the cart's passing by, now, and right there, in the back, sandwiched between Milo and Tanner, and getting swarmed by the Saviors, is Enid. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:42_

If he'd even _had_ a chance, he'd missed it. 

Enid had been _right there_ , and now she's _in there_ , along with the racket of shouting chaos filtering out from the plaza. And he's just standin' around with his thumb up his ass. 

Taking a breath- maybe if he can get up the access ladder between the hangar and the wall, he can get in- he exhales. Casts a glance in Dwight's direction; the light from his helmet's blasting him right in the face as Dwight mutters to himself. 

The comms. Right. 

Daryl gets his own helmet back on his head- the chin straps are too tangled up to fuck with- and rolls his eyes, just in case Dwight's looking. 

"-stay the course," Sasha's saying. On the open channel, underneath Negan, who's haranguing someone about the plasma torch, Simon's ordering someone to get Enid over to the brig.

Dwight's voice is low enough that Daryl can only hear it over the comms. "You hearing this, Heath?"

"Soon as you all are clear, I'm on it."

"All right," Dwight says, stepping close enough that Daryl can make out the scarring. "She's okay for now. You cool?"

He ain't, not by half. But a cell's better than a mob. And he don't know Heath from shit, but he's better than nothing. Which is all he's got, otherwise.

"Fuck you," he grumbles, and taps himself onto Sasha's comm's channel. "Let's get this shit over with. How much time we got?"

"Four minutes until pressurization is complete."

"We're ready to drop the door," another voice answers. Connor, probably. "OC, how're we looking?"

"No visual yet," a new voice- presumably belonging to Connor's control room contact- says, loudly enough that it's clear that they're probably trying to be overheard. "We're getting the diagnostics online. Hold for further instructions."

"All right," Sasha says. "I'm in position- thanks, Heath. Everyone, stand by."

"Roger that," Dwight says, scanning the commons and the wall, before nodding towards the hangar. Stepping carefully around the edge of the old garage foundation, they make their way towards the airlock. 

Four or five minutes from now, Connor's people up in the control room will be overriding the lockdown commands to the Dockside and emergency access airlocks. As soon as they're sealed up on board, the launch bay doors will be opened, and the hangar will be vented to space. 

Dwight's turning his headlamp off, letting out a sigh and scratching his head, 'cause he knows it too: it's almost done. They're almost gone. 

All this- the Alexandria, the strip, the _colony_ \- is about to become some place he used to be. 

So now is _not_ the time to be catchin' sight of Carl fucking _Grimes_ , slinking along the edge of the old garage foundation, heading for the Admin gate with a blaster in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more update to go for part one, but no worries- part two will be starting soon!


	29. Chapter 29

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:43_

"All right, we're about to open the doors," Connor's voice comes through the cargo bay's loudspeaker, tinny and thin. "Paul, be ready to _what the-_ "

The broadcast cuts out. 

\---

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:43_

"Two minutes," he tells Dwight, switching over to the private channel and hoping like hell he'll realize that while letting him go might complicate shit, shooting him won't _uncomplicate_ it. "Don't wait."

He ain't thinkin' about the airlock that's about to open, or the ship that's about to launch, or about how pissed Dwight sounds, barking at him over comms, because he's thinkin' about how Carl's gonna get himself killed the moment he gets through to Admin. 

And he's thinkin' about how someone's gonna have to explain it to Rick, and how the words, _that idiot Daryl got himself shot chasin' after the damn fool_ are gonna figure in. 

Better that than _Daryl saw him and didn't do shit_ , though. Mostly, he's thinkin' that it ain't right, how _quick_ the damn kid can move when he's spooked, 'cause of _course_ he'd rabbited the moment he'd realized he'd been made.

"Daryl, what the _hell_ are you doing?" Sasha's biting the words out on the line as he rounds the corner, but Carl's only a few paces ahead of him now, _almost_ within reach.

" _Carl, hold up!_ He's shouting louder than he probably should, but it startles the kid just long enough for him to glance over his shoulder, then stumble to a stop. 

"Daryl?"

"One minute," Dwight warns him. 

"Again," Sasha says. "What the _fuck_ is going on- Carl's there?"

Daryl's finally got a grip on the kid's sleeve, throwing him off balance just enough that he nearly trips over his own feet backing away from him.

" _Carl_ ," he repeats, steady as he can, and _finally_ , he stops. Glares against the light, his upper lip curling angrily. 

" _What?_ " Underneath, through the earpiece, Dwight's tellin' Sasha he'll take care of it, which probably means _him_. 

Fuck. 

Carl's shoulders are heaving, but it won't take much for him to rabbit, so Daryl hazards a guess. "You're gonna get killed, you go in there." He gulps down a breath, grabs him again- this time by the arm- to try holdin' him steady. "It's-"

"-not your problem," Carl's struggling, trying to pull his arm free. "Let me-"

"Enid's _okay_ ," Daryl tells him; it could be a lie- and probably is, given the irritated grunt that Dwight makes on the line- but he needs him to just _listen_ for a goddamned second. They gotta be quick, here. They're too close to the fucking gate, but Carl's diggin' his heels in. Won't be dragged away. "You go in there, all you're doin' is giving Negan a reason-"

He freezes, suddenly, unable to breathe; there's no feeling in his hand, and then there's just _fire_ flooding his arm, and he can't control the flinch that starts in his fingers, jabs through his heart, and seizes all the way down to his calves-

-he's on his knees, trying to blink against the gravel Carl's kicking up; someone else is skidding in to take his place, knocking him back down hard enough that his helmet comes loose; he bats it away uncoordinatedly.

"Don't fucking- _Daryl?_ " It's Glenn, panting, blaster in hand, staring back at him in confusion. "What-"

He points after Carl with an arm that's mostly pins and needles. "Jus' _go_." 

Glenn's eyes widen and Daryl sees him glancing back in Dwight's direction. 

" _Shit_ ," he hisses. "Sorry!" 

Ghost trails of movement follow in Glenn's wake, and Daryl blinks to clear his vision as he draws himself back up. Even then, it takes a few seconds to recognize Rick and Aaron coming up from the perimeter, or Michonne and Eric, flanking along the wall, blasters drawn. 

Michonne, carrying up the rear, runs over to help him up. "You good?"

He shakes his head- trying to clear it, trying to tell her to _keep going_. "I'm fine. Best max the charge out from here, though. You're gonna need it."

"We're on it," She squeezes his shoulder. "Good luck. Safe trip."

He nods, and she moves fast to catch up with the others over by the gate.

He wants to run after her, after all of them. He _should_.

Instead, his feet find their balance as he makes his way back towards the hangar, and then around to the airlock. 

Dwight's on the ground. He's not moving. 

\---

 _Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:44_

"Bridge to cargo, we're dropping the door. Prepare to assist," Connor's voice comes tinny and distant through the hold's public address system. 

Connor'd told him what to do, what his part in all of this entailed. Really, it's just twisting a dial, keying in the manual override command, and freezing, terrified, when Connor comes back through.

"God fucking _damn_ it, _shit_!"

"This is Rovia," he calls out, not even certain that the've opened a two-way link. "What do you need me to do?" No answer, but just in case, he continues, as loud as he can. "Standing by."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He doesn't even know if they'd heard. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:44_

Dwight's just been stunned, same as him, but he'd taken a harder hit. Getting him up to his feet takes more work than it should, and he doesn't seem to appreciate Daryl's effort. When he talks, the words come out through clenched teeth. 

"Get that dumb shit out of your system?"

Daryl shrugs, shifting his arm underneath Dwight's as he starts listing again, and reaches up for his comms link before realizing his helmet's still on the ground ten meters away. Dwight catches on quickly enough, but his movements are uncoordinated as he reaches up for his own.

"Got him. We're good to go."

He's barely finished speaking before the mechanisms inside the door start to whir and rumble. 

The handle doesn't give; the wheel's not stuck, but it's meant to hold up to rapid depressurization, and he's going to need both of his hands to get it. Dwight starts struggling to fight him off, but releasing him only makes him hit harder. 

"What the fuck?"

" _Go!_ "

"I'm fuckin' _trying_ ," he says, nudging Dwight towards the wall next to the door so his nagging ass can lean _there_ instead. 

"Negan's-" Dwight takes a breath; he sounds like he's laughing. "Your people were made and we missed check-in. They're coming."

\--- 

It takes all of Daryl's strength to even make the hatch wheel twist a few millimeters, and he can't help wondering when it was, exactly, that it had last been serviced, let alone used. He releases the wheel and shakes the feeling back into his hands, then makes another go of it. 

"Hear that?" 

Just barely. Blaster fire's not like gunshots; there's no loud crack. Just a think whining hum that disappears underneath the sound of people being electrocuted. 

Thing is, it's not the sort of thing you can hear unless it's very, very close, which means you're already in range. If not for the shouting accompanying it- fuck, that's _Eric_ \- they'd both probably be missing it completely. 

His second attempt earns him a full centimeter, and maybe it's all in his head, but it's starting to move more easily. Still, it doesn't exactly spin out, like a rusted-out faucet once the crust's been broken. 

"Shit," Dwight says, half to himself, as he finally pulls himself together enough to move off of the wall and reach for his blaster. He staggers away- not far, and when Daryl glances over, he's training his aim around the corner of the wall. "He's _on_ it," he's hissing into comms, barely loud enough to track, "the damn door's-"

The handle _is_ turning, now, and he can hear the bolt sliding, and then, suddenly, there's a solid _thunk_. 

"Got it, let's-" 

Dwight's already shooting, though, because the shouting's finally arrived. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:46_

Sasha's standing in the hangar when the cargo bay door comes down, only instead of watching it or boarding, she's got her hand halfway up to her helmet, and she's walking away towards the airlock. 

"Sasha?"

She makes a firm gesture- _wait_ \- and draws her blaster. 

"Paul," she says, after a long, tense moment. "Get back in there and stay low. They're coming in hot."

He's got clear line of sight on the door, but no cover and no weapon. All he can do is watch Sasha drop her visor and run over to the scant cover of bolted-down equipment along the eastern wall. 

Her orders, along with the weight of the impending situation, finally sink in, and he edges towards the frame of the cargo bay door. "What the hell's going on out there?" His voice echoes back at him until it's buried suddenly under a loud thudding noise. As the light above the airlock goes green, Sasha raises her blaster and readies her aim. 

The door opens slowly, but not completely, and Daryl staggers through; Dwight's right on his heels, blaster in hand, returning fire as the two of them jostle for the handle, attempting to pull it shut. It's all in the angle, though; the door opens out towards the commons and providing little protection against the dozen or so Saviors whose headlamps are swimming chaotically outside. 

Paul doesn't know what to do- he should be doing _something_. Sasha's run forward to provide more cover fire. If Dwight and Daryl would just _focus_ on the goddamned _door_ for a second, they'd be-

"Fuck, _Glenn-_ " Daryl shouts, as he and Dwight jerk back, either avoiding direct shot or being jolted by a near miss. The blasters only have a range of about twenty feet at best- thirty if they're maxed out- but the dissipating energy has to go _somewhere_ , and maybe it's found them. 

"Come on, come _on_ ," Sasha's shouting at the two of them, but Dwight's shaking his head, and Daryl's too busy trying to pull the door shut again; someone on the outside is fighting it; Dwight actually steps outside, jabs his blaster out- presumably, he fires- and the door swings shut almost quickly. It's shoving him to the side as he pulls his arm back. But they're not closing it, and he and Daryl both are looking like they're about to-

" _Dwight!_ " Sasha's furious, lunging forward and grabbing at Dwight's arm, trying to tug him back, but Daryl grabs _her_ arm and shakes his head. Paul can't make out what's being said- he's not even _that_ useful right now- but Sasha's shoulders slump, and doesn't resume her efforts. Instead, she's cramming herself low against Dwight's side, getting into position, and firing out more directly. 

"C'Mon!" Daryl's shouting, and suddenly, Dwight and Sasha are falling back as someone crashes into them; instead of shooting or fighting, Sasha's dragging him further inside. He's injured, bad and bloody, shoulders hunched and hands to his face. Bundling him under her arm as best as she can, Sasha starts steering him back towards the ship.

"Paul, I need help!" 

She looks- and sounds- terrified. 

He runs down the ramp, nearly sending himself sprawling when he misjudges the angle of the floor, and goes over to them. He doesn't know what to do besides put a hand on the guy's shoulder and help maneuver them up the ramp to the cargo bay. It's not enough, but he can't _think_.

"Carl," Sasha says, as Paul's blindsided by the recognition. "You're going to be okay. Me and Paul, we've got you." Sasha's voice is deceptively calm, if only because the kid can't see her. But Paul can. 

And he wants to close his eyes on all of it. Whatever's wrong- there's a lot of blood, and Carl's shoulders flinch every few steps, and he still hasn't looked up, not even to see where he's putting his feet- it's _bad_.

"Dad-" his voice is small, and breaks off into another sob. " _Fuck_."

"Paul," she says, taking a breath that lets her face at least mimic a sense of calmness, "did you do your homework?"

He swallows, not liking where this is going, and glances back towards the airlock. So far, Dwight and Daryl seem to be holding out okay, but it's hard to tell whether or not they're actively trying to keep the door open, or trying to pull it shut. "Yeah?"

Her hand goes up to her earpiece as they reach the top of the ramp. "Connor, be advised, we've got one for stasis. Can one of you meet us in the medbay?"

It's hard to tell whether _this_ twitch is because of fear, pain or misery; Paul squeezes Carl's shoulder gently and tells him, "Okay, we're going to go straight for about twenty feet, then there's a door, all right?"

Weaving, Carl makes a noise in his throat that he chooses to take as assent. 

The shouting's no longer coming from outside; but Sasha's careful as she eases back, looking angrily out through the cargo bay door. The black of her uniform's hiding the worst of it, but her neck's smeared with blood. "You get him safe, yeah?"

"Yeah."

He forces himself not to look back, not even to follow the movement of her feet pound metal down the ramp, or the sound of her shouting for them to _get the damned door_.

It's awkward going, with their path narrowed by crates on either side - not to mention the very good likelihood that anyone could be boarding right behind them. Carl's sweating, breathing heavily and wetly, with blood running out of his nose, underneath his hand. His feet start stumbling, worse than before

"Hang on, just a little more, okay?" Swallowing against the panic is hard- impossible when Carl lists suddenly to the side; Paul has to tug at him to keep him upright and the movement jostles Carl's arms away from his face. 

He'd known it was his eye, that something was wrong. He'd be hoping it wasn't this _bad_ , and he doesn't know what to do besides look _away_ and keep them both _moving_ while they still can. 

Four feet from the door, Carl crumples against him completely, and it's all he can do not to drop him. Maybe that would be kinder. 

Maybe he's an asshole for thinking so.

He thinks he calls out- maybe for help, though it feels more like a scream- and tries to hang on, but the door's sliding open. 

Connor steps through followed by with a Dockside worker Paul only vaguely recognizes. Their eyes are wide, but they're quick, and they barely break stride before easing them out of his grip and onto the floor.

Dockside hands him a blaster, but Connor shakes his head and juts his chin out towards the open door. "Get everyone on board and get that damned door shut. Laura's up there solo."

Dazed, he blinks, and watches them maneuver around the cramped space to pick Carl's unconscious body up into a two person carry hold. He's pathetically relieved when Dockside blocks his view of Carl's head. 

"Rovia, fucking _go_ ," Connor says, and he does. 

Behind him, he hears them counting down for the lift. In front of him, down in the hangar bay Sasha, Dwight and Daryl are attempting to fight off half a dozen Saviors. 

There are no surprised shouts, now. 

They all know why they're here. 

\--- 

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:51_

The door's shut, but getting the damn thing to _seal_ is another fucking story. The control room can't do anything about the manual override until it's either all the way open or all the way seated, which is such feat of engineering genius that it _only_ could've come from the addled brains of an Admin squint. 

Of the eight Saviors that had managed to break past them, six are still standing, and more are tryin' to get inside. Daryl ain't doin' much more than holding those ones at bay; the only thing he's got goin' for him is that the six- including Linebacker, _shit_ \- are focused on the ship.

Even so, he's keeping one eye on the hangar and one hand on his half-drained blaster, in case any of them slip up and come into firing range. Linebacker's got Dwight cut off back behind the loading jack on the east side. Using the ramp itself as cover, Sasha's managing to hold the cargo bay entrance against the five who are flanking out to the west, just outside of her blaster range. 

Any second now, they're gonna get their shit together and make a run at it. All they have to do is spread out; she can't cover both sides of the ramp from underneath. If the door ain't locking down by then, Daryl ain't going to be able to cut them off, either.

There's a charge in the air- not a direct hit- that fries the goosebumps that hadn't yet gone down from the previous two misses. Twisting as he crouches down, he shoots before the retreating Savior's got a chance to do shit about it. Drops the guy dead. 

_Shit_. His battery's down to fifteen percent; he's maybe got two kill shots left at best. Leaning against the wall by the door, he resets the blast release to fifty percent; it won't drop anyone dead, but it'll slow them down, and that's the best he can hope for right now. 

The hatch wheel's turning- it's _been_ turning- when he gets a grip on it, and he has to drop his blaster just to slow the damned thing _down_. Sasha's shouting- he can't process what she's saying, but he hears her- and he braces for a blast that somehow doesn't come. 

The Saviors are making their move- Sasha's retreated underneath the ship's ramp- but Dwight's taken care of Linebacker, and he's sidestepping out from the side of the ship, firing on the two closest to him. Manages to send one of them to his knees, but apparently he's out of juice; tossing his blaster aside, he retreats back to pick up the one that Linebacker had dropped. 

The wiry fucker that's taking advantage of the gap Dwight's leaving is edging out towards the middle of the hangar, but he ain't in range yet, so Daryl releases the handle and runs up after him; not close enough, his first shot doesn't even make him break stride. The second one sends him to his knees, the third's out before Daryl can think to stop himself from wasting the shot. 

There are three Saviors left; two are closing in on Sasha, whose shots aren't coming as fast as they could be. The other- Jody, now that Daryl notices the braid trailing out underneath the helmet- is exchanging fire with Dwight, which means _now_ is not a good time for Dwight to be distracted and shouting about the door. 

He turns back to check- the handle starts turning again but then stops- which hopefully means they've got some backup fighting them off on the other side- but as he runs towards it, there's a startled shout coming from the ramp. 

The larger of the two pinning Sasha down is jerking back, dragging the smaller one with him as he fires on the opening to the cargo bay. 

Rovia's up there, dropping down to the floor, white shirt covered in blood- _Carl's_ blood; his blaster drops out of his hands and slides down the ramp a few feet before tumbling over the side. Past the ramp and to the right, Dwight's shoving Jody onto the ground, kicking her in the side before running to grab it; Sasha's shouting, which at least means she's still alive. 

" _Fuck the door and get over here!_ "

He runs for it, figuring that he's only got one shot left, but it's three against two for the time being, and that's as good as they're likely to get.

Dwight's disappeared behind the ramp- he or Sasha manage to get at the shorter of the two remaining; the other is ducking back, away from them, and scrambling for the ramp. Just as Daryl's got him in range, he spins to fire on him. 

The blast fries through him, trips him up but he stumbles forward, throwing all his effort into falling towards the guy and firing off a return shot that doesn't do jack shit but trip him up a little. 

He takes a boot to the shoulder that he's too dazed to avoid, but as he grapples for the guy's leg, they're both sliding down the ramp. 

_This_ time, it's Rovia, on his knees and grabbing at the Savior's shoulders; he's trying to shove him over the edge of the ramp. Daryl only realizes this when it works, and _he_ gets dragged down along with him. 

There's thuds and kicks, but nothing's connecting, and then there's a grip on his arm pulling him up as he shakes his head. 

"C'mon."

Sasha and Rovia are already dragging themselves up the ramp with heavy footsteps that reverberate on the metal, but as soon as they reach the top, Sasha's shoving him towards one of the crates and turning back towards them. 

Her eyes widen, locked on the hangar door- there's shouting, suddenly, and it's coming in fast- and waves for them to move faster, saying, "We gotta _go_." 

It's more of a controlled stumble than a run- the ramp hadn't _looked_ so steep- but after a few long seconds, he and Dwight make it up into the cargo bay. Rovia's slamming his hand against the panel next to the opening, and the ship lurches sickly underneath their feet.

Sasha's shoving past them, reaching for the panel herself, pressing another button and panting into the comms unit. "Ramp's coming up, airlock's green. Disable manual override."

Saviors are pouring into the hangar. He catches sight of Simon, but then Dwight's falling against him and the and the charged air feels like sandpaper on Daryl's neck. He ducks down, low, as Sasha does the same. Out in the hangar, the light above the airlock goes from green to flashing yellow, but it's the clearance alarms that startles the dozen or so Saviors into stumbling into a confused halt in the middle of the room. 

"Fucking _move_ , people," Simon's voice cuts through the noise, immediately, but it only leads to more confusion. Stumbling over each other, half of them break off for the airlock; the others are running at the ramp, firing blindly. 

Daryl's blaster is only good for pistol-whipping, but Sasha gets two shots off before the ramp's raised up enough to shield both sides; even so, the air's _charged_ , now. The light over the airlock door blinks red and holds. 

The hangar is sealed. Five seconds and a few kicks to fingers trying foolishly to grab at the edge of the ramp, and the cargo bay is as well. 

Letting out a breath, Daryl slumps. He ain't the only one. Sasha's got her forehead against the wall; he can't see Rovia's face from here, but he can see Carl's blood standing out garishly on his shirt. 

_Fuck, Carl_. 

Dwight's on the floor, shaking his head. "I'm too fuckin' old for this shit," he declares, pushing himself up into a sitting position as someone's fist collides with the other side of the door. 

"All right, listen up," a woman's voice Daryl doesn't recognize comes over the intercom as they pass into a narrow corridor that ends in a short ladder masquerading as stairs. "Our window's closing. Get your asses up to the main cabin _now _."__

__Sasha's leading the way, then Dwight, so Daryl taps Rovia on the shoulder to ask, "Carl okay?"_ _

__There's a shrug, and a frown; he looks more dazed than anything. "They put him in stasis."_ _

__"Where?"_ _

__"Daryl." Sasha's got her hand on the railing for the stairs. It's not until she looks back at him that he realizes he hadn't been tryin' to be heard. "One minute to lift-off and three to hyperdrive. Be sure to hang onto something."_ _

__He can see Rovia's shoulders sag, but he nods over to the door on the left. "Through here."_ _

__\---_ _

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 09:58_

__"Don't worry," Connor's voice comes over the intercom, only to be interrupted by the woman's voice._ _

__"-they're not getting in." She sounds like she's biting it out through her teeth. Maybe it's a grimace. It could be a grin. Worry or bloody confidence, it's hard to tell._ _

__The lights come on the moment they step into the medbay, but he's disoriented; what he thinks is the stasis chamber is actually a narrow thick window that's mostly sheltered by the horizontal stabilizer. Blinking, he turns to his left and finds what he's looking for. The stasis chamber's built into the wall; it's not until he turns the light on that they can make anything out through the glass, and the moment he does, he wishes he hadn't, and not only because he'd forgotten not to use his injured hand._ _

__There's gore- Carl's _eye_ , too much of it, too _torn_ \- and there's the sudden lurch of nausea, and focusing on the straps holding Carl's inert frame into place isn't enough; Paul's eyes slam shut- _ _

__Behind him, Daryl's voice is hoarse and flat. "Is he dead?"_ _

__He shakes his head, forcing his eyes open to focus on the monitor, hoping to make sure he's not lying. Only he's drawing a blank. He can't remember anything he'd read in the manuals. There's the light control; beyond that, everything's behind a passcode that he doesn't know._ _

__"It's stasis. That's all we've got."_ _

__The woman's voice comes over the intercom again. "Doors are holding. Fifty seconds. All personnel be advised, we updated Dockside Control about Carl's condition the moment they got him in stasis. They'll pass it on when they can."_ _

__Paul frowns, because _when they can_ is not good news. None of this is, and there's no point in trying to process it. Daryl looks like he's trying to, though. _ _

__He's nearly as frozen as Carl is, and, like Carl, knocking him out of it too suddenly and too soon feels like a dangerous prospect. Still, they've got to move._ _

__Underneath the chatter from the cockpit and the tower, there's a thudding sound moving across the wall, close to the floor; he thinks he catches movement through the window, but he's not sure._ _

__"Come on," he says, turning the light off, then turning around until he sees what he's looking for. There are no seats, and therefore no seatbelts. But on the wall opposite, in the corner between the window and the cabinets, are the emergency stabilization straps._ _

__Daryl looks like he knows what he's doing with them- of course, he's been on a ship before. Paul follows his lead, edging his shoulders through the loops. It's the crossbody strap that he can't quite manage. Getting at the clip requires twisting his left hand around until it's screaming at him, and he can't-_ _

__"-here," Daryl says, loosening his own shoulder strap smoothly. Twisting sideways, he manages to grab the dangling end of Paul's crossbody strap, holding it up so that Paul can finagle the other side of the clip into place._ _

__"Uh..." Daryl's shaking his head as the thudding becomes more pronounced; Paul looks up, following his stare out to the window._ _

__Simon's on the other side, banging at the glass like it's a door- like they'd let him in, even if it _was_ a door- and he looks panicked. _ _

__And he probably should be, because the feed from the cockpit's still live, and through it, Dockside's confirming that the membrane's fully receded._ _

__"Overhead door is opening in five...four...three..."_ _

__"-holy _shit_ ," Paul's not sure which one of them says it-_ _

__"-two...one."_ _

__\---_ _

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 10:00_

__Daryl sees it, the moment Simon's face registers what's happening- or what's _about_ to. Eyes wide, teeth bared, jaw clenched. He might as well be frozen. _ _

__Whether he _does_ freeze in an instant is anyone's guess, though, because in the time it takes Daryl to blink, the ship rocks against the battering surge of dust and debris that's sweeping across the window._ _

__Someone's talking over the intercom; something about _clear_ and _ launch_. 

He's leaning as far forward as the straps'll let him, he's trying to see because he can't not _know_ \- and he's slammed against the wall as the ship lurches back. There's a high pitched wine cutting through his brain, and- shit-

-he manages to cinch his right strap down again, but just as he's reaching for the other one, he and Rovia both swing out- Rovia, with only his crossbody secured, snaps out so far and fast it's a wonder his neck doesn't snap. 

Bracing himself against the wall with his right arm, Daryl shoves out his left, reaching across Rovia's chest to push him upright. Rovia bites out a cry when his head hits the wall, but they're listing again and all Daryl can do is grab hold of Rovia's shoulder strap and try to hold it tight. 

"You good?" He nearly has to shout. Rovia looks seasick underneath all his grimacing, which could be a problem. " _Breathe, all right?_ "

He nods, so Daryl follows the strap down and tightens the cinch strap, tugging as hard as the angle will allow. When he goes to pull back, Rovia grabs hold of his hand.

"All personnel, be advised, we've reached altitude," Connor announces. "Hyperdrive's engaged and online. Hold onto your hats or hit the wall headfirst, your choice."

The whine's kicking back into high gear, jabbing through his brain like a knife. Shutting his eyes doesn't help any, but he does it anyway, and underneath, he's dimly aware that Rovia ain't showin' no signs of letting go. 

But fuck it. As the ship threatens to shake apart around them, Daryl gives in to the death grip and just fucking _hangs on_.


	30. Epilogue

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 10:03_

It's really happening. 

Paul keeps his eyes squeezed shut, not that it does anything against the noise, and waits. 

It's _really happening _.__

__He thinks he's going to die. It doesn't make sense. His eyes hurt._ _

__And _finally_ , either his eardrums are giving out, or the high pitched whine is abating. _ _

__Another minute goes by, but taking a deep breath is all the movement he's willing to risk. Daryl's fist presses against his chest, and it helps, more than it's meant to._ _

__Exhaling, he opens one eye. It's dark- _dark_ \- outside the window. _ _

__Daryl's mouth is smirking, but he looks dizzy. "You okay?"_ _

__The lights in here are _on_. They're moving. It's _working_. _ _

__His heart's in his throat- he remembers to exhale-and Daryl shifts._ _

__Too dazed for the mortification to set in- that'll come later, he's sure- Paul lets go of his hand._ _

__"I'm good. You?"_ _

__Daryl just nods, rocking his head back against the wall; his throat moves when he swallows. Just as the question's starting to form in Paul's head, he can hear the intercom come back on. It's Dwight._ _

__"Paul, Daryl, fuck, everyone who's not flying the ship, report to the cabin ASAP. We've got a bit of a situation."_ _

__Paul can't help the laugh that bubbles out, but he's quick to choke it back down. Daryl, for his part, lets out an irritated growl, and the both of them get to work on the straps._ _

__"Dwight, that you?" Connor sounds pissed. "Don't say shit like that unless-"_ _

__"Nothing life-threatening," Sasha replies, "though I gotta say, I'm not opposed. Just get your asses back here."_ _

__He hadn't realized how much of his balance had been relying on them until he's trying to take a step; Daryl actually has to brace himself on the wall just to get upright. And he's _laughing_ about it. "Forgot. Ship. Sea legs an' shit." _ _

__"At least the gravity's on." Maybe a hair less than usual, but not by much, and according to the math, it shouldn't take too long to acclimate. An hour, two at most._ _

__Daryl still grinning, though, and _that_ , Paul thinks, might take just a little bit longer. _ _

__\---_ _

_Monday, 05/19/2194, 10:06_

__He follows Rovia up steep, narrow steps that are more ladder than stairs, and up into corridor of the main cabin; Connor's coming down from the cockpit with a man Daryl's never seen. Taking a left, they reach what looks to be a common area, maybe a kitchen. He ain't entirely sure; Sasha and Dwight are standing in the doorway on the other side; Sasha waves them over; she's mostly looking at Rovia._ _

__It's crowded, so he can't see, but one glimpse over Sasha's shoulder is enough and he steps back to let Connor through. It's a bathroom- small and cramped- and there, sitting on the closed lid of the complicated toilet, dirty-blond hair sticking out in every direction, blood streaming out of his nose, is-_ _

__"Spencer?" Rovia's shoulders twitch, like he can't decide whether he wants to hunch over or square up. From this angle, he can just make out his reflection in the polished steel mirror; the squint's furious. "What the hell are you doing here?"_ _

__Sasha answers for him, turning to Rovia. "Found him in here once the hyperdrive engaged."_ _

__"You stowed away?"_ _

__"You caught that, did you? Mom always said you were smart."_ _

__"Cute," Sasha cuts in. "But right now, you need to be coming out with one reason why we shouldn't put you ass-first through the airlock."_ _

__Councilman Monroe beams, looking at Rovia and Sasha like they're idiots. "Because you're going to need me."_ _

__"The hell we will," Connor rolls his eyes, easing back out of the room, rolling his eyes. "Keep me apprised; I'll have Mitch prep the airlock," he tells Dwight, and makes his way back through the kitchen, heading up towards the cockpit._ _

__" _Leaving all that aside," Rovia says, raising his hands diplomatically, "why do we need you and why are you here?"__ _

___"Well, in case you haven't already guessed, the Council caught onto your plan. Long story short, a few of us decided to hedge our bets. You made a stupid play- nice job with that war you just started, by the way- but you've got the ship. _I'm_ just here to make sure something worthwhile comes from all of it."_ _ _

___"What do you mean?"_ _ _

___"Earth's fucked. You know it, I know it, the _Council_ knows it. Even so. There are millions people on that rock. You need allies, and you have nowhere to start." Monroe grins up at Rovia through the blood, smug, like he's won some fight Daryl hadn't even known was happening. That patronizing smirk ain't even bein' _directed_ at him, but he'd be more'n happy to clock it off of him. " _I_ , however, _do_."_ _ _

___Rovia crosses his arms. It's got to be putting pressure on his left hand, but he's not letting on. "You saying you've got someone in mind?"_ _ _

___"Someone in mind?" Monroe scoffs, shaking his head like he's won some game nobody else had even realized they'd been playing. "I've got an entire _kingdom_."_ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And that's it for part one! 
> 
> Part two (with actual shippyness! on an actual ship!) is already underway, and will begin within the next two weeks. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D


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